#I genuinely can’t take it if he doesn’t at least podium

[the-architect-of-ferrari]

everyone’s so excited for the race… I have no idea why. Singapore 2023?? I don’t know her

[fluentmoviequoter]

Falling Slowly

Requested Here!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!rookie!reader

Summary: You are Tim's newest rookie, and his favorite. He treats you differently, able to see that your past affects you, and the little things build up until you can't deny your feelings.

Warnings: so much fluff, brief angst, domestic violence (Tim and reader respond to a call & allusions to past dv against reader), one scene is inspired by "The Switch" (1x4)

Word Count: 4.0k+ words

A/N: This doesn't really fit in any specific season, so I put characters in the roles I wanted them to have and just made up some names to fill in the gaps. Hopefully everything makes sense. Please let me know what you think!

Picture from Pinterest

“What are you doing here?” Angela asks, surprised to see Tim.

Furrowing his brows, Tim answers, “I’m here for the TO meeting.”

Angela tilts her head back and groans, passing Nyla a 10-dollar bill.

“She thought you’d give up your position for Metro,” Nyla explains.

“I’d like to, someday, but not today,” Tim replies.

“20 bucks this is his last one,” Angela says to Nyla. “He still has the open invite to Metro and his patience can’t take many more boots.”

Nyla reaches to shake Angela’s hand as Tim rolls his eyes and walks away.

“Let me see his rookie first, then we’ll talk,” Nyla decides. “I’ve got a feeling a lot is going to change around here.”

“Like what?” Angela asks. “Nyla! Like what?”

✯✯✯✯✯

Walking into the Mid-Wilshire station on your first day as a rookie is both nerve-wracking and exciting. You’ve heard stories about boots making it through the academy to fail once they reach this level, but you’re determined. When you were a kid, you were in bad situations more often than any child should be, but kind police officers changed your life, and you’d like to do the same.

Waving to one of your police academy friends, you sit in the bullpen, waiting impatiently to learn which officer behind you will be your training officer. Getting the perfect training officer is up to fate, based on what you’ve heard, and your TO can make or break your career.

“Good morning, boots! I am Watch Commander Wade Grey. You have made it through the police academy, but don’t expect a pat on the back, your work is just beginning. This is the time to prove yourself, to show your TO, me, and this city why you deserve to be a police officer.” He pauses, moving around the podium to add, “If you should be a police officer.”

As you listen intently, striving to remember every word Sergeant Grey says, two detectives stand at the back of the room and evaluate the rookies.

“He’s only got one shot,” Angela mutters.

“If he gets the pretty one in the front, I’m not taking the bet,” Nyla says.

Angela looks up a row, her brows raising when she sees you. “If he ends up with her, we’re starting a station-wide pool and getting rich,” she adds.

“Now, it’s time to be assigned to your judge, jury, and executioner,” Wade says with a smile. “Or, as we call them, TOs. Our former rookie turned TO, Nolan: you’ve got Edward Henderson.

 Officer Nolan nods at Henderson, and you remember his story: a late-life rookie who got a golden ticket. Part of you wants to work with him and learn why he decided on law enforcement, but you only nod at Henderson before turning back around.

“Lance Vincent, you are with our newest TO, Eliza Reagan.”

Wade says your name with a smile that seems a bit more genuine than before. “Officer Bradford, last but not least,” he says as he assigns you your new TO.

You look over your shoulder, a small smile on your face as he nods at you. He is undeniably attractive, and you hope it doesn’t cause any problems.

“Oh, he’s a goner,” Nyla whispers under her breath when you smile at Tim.

“Should we tell him?” Angela replies.

“I think we’ll have to.”

✯✯✯✯✯

Something about you bothers Tim. Not in the usual, grumpy-with-a-new-boot way, but he has a sense that you’re different.��

“Nice to meet you,” you say, walking to Tim at the back of the bullpen.

He stands, offering a calloused hand to shake.

“I’m not going to pretend this is going to be easy or fun,” he tells you. “Being a rookie is the hardest part of your career, but if you’re a good cop under the uniform, you’ll be fine.”

Nodding, you promise to do your best and express your willingness to learn everything you can from him.

“Good,” he says. “Meet me outside the war room. We’re not wasting any time, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” you answer.

Tim watches you walk away, and when you stop to let someone carrying a large box cross in front of you, Tim realizes that you’re hurting, or were hurting not long ago. The underlying need to help people is something he recognizes.

“She’s pretty,” Angela muses, walking to Tim’s side.

“Though you know that,” Nyla adds, smiling on his other side.

“She’s a boot. No different than the other rookies,” Tim argues, though his gaze is still on your back as you sign for your bags and weapons.

“Sure, she is. Why don’t you go put her through a Tim test?” Angela suggests.

Tim rolls his eyes as he leaves, wondering what hurt you bad enough to make you want to be a cop. He became a cop despite his hurt, but you’re young and bright – and too good for him – so there must be something in you that makes you worthy of this. More worthy (and more beautiful) than any rookie before you.

✯✯✯✯✯

Several officers wish you luck, with one or two warning you about so-called “Tim Tests” while you wait for Tim behind the shop.

“Don’t tell me you have a checklist,” Tim begins, drawing your attention away from the shop tires.

“No, sir,” you answer. “Just being vigilant, I suppose. I’d hate to start my first day with a flat tire.”

Tim nods, asking where the war bags are. You tell him how you checked the contents and loaded them into the trunk, and he appreciates your brief explanation.

“Good work. The easy part is over,” Tim says. He seems to weigh his options before deciding, “You drive. Show me what you’ve got.”

He follows you to the driver’s side door, opening it as he reminds you of standard shop procedures. As Tim closes the door, you wonder if he’s a gentleman or if he followed you because he doesn’t trust you to drive correctly. Either way, you know what you’re doing, and you won’t let the man in the passenger seat distract you… too much.

Driving toward Wilshire Boulevard for patrol, Tim looks out the window. 

“Blue Camaro has an expired plate,” you alert.

“Call it in.”

You do so, hitting the sirens as you engage the traffic stop. Tim raises a hand to stop you from getting out.

“Remember your training. Don’t let the situation get away from you.”

His words linger in your mind, and you complete the stop with no problem, issuing a ticket and returning to the shop.

“I’m driving,” Tim alerts you, spreading his hand across the small of your back as he directs you to the sidewalk.

“Did I do something wrong?” you ask when he starts the car.

“No,” he answers bluntly.

You lick your lips nervously, turning your attention to your surroundings. Suddenly, Tim pulls over and hits the brakes.

“I’ve been shot, boot. Where are we?” Tim demands.

Furrowing your brows in surprise at his actions, you answer, “Intersection of 12th and Meadowbrook, west of Redondo. There are several hospitals in a five-mile radius, but only one has a trauma center.”

Tim pulls out wordlessly, continuing his patrol route. Tim doesn't say much else throughout the few hours between his first test and lunch. He lets you point things out, answers your questions about the area and procedures, and glances at you out of the corner of his eye. When he pulls up to a small circle of food trucks where several police officers are waiting, he turns toward you.

“You’re doing well. I’m not neglecting to give you good feedback for any reason other than once you start riding alone, you won’t get it. My role here is to prepare you for your solo career, not hold your hand until you get there.”

“I understand, sir. Thank you for answering my questions,” you reply as you open the door.

Tim’s hand finds your upper back as he leads you to his favorite of the food trucks, a light touch that disappears nearly as quickly as it happened. You thank him quietly for the suggestion before sitting with your fellow rookies.

“Hi, Tim,” Angela says.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his annoyance breaking through his growing fondness for you.

“Just came to get some food. Your boot seems to be in a good mood.”

“Strange, I thought Tim’s thing was ‘break their spirits in the first hour,’” Nyla adds as she joins Angela.

“You two not have work to do or something?” Tim inquires.

“Something like that. How’s she doing?” Angela tips her chin toward you as she asks.

“She’s got good instincts, knows protocols.”

“But?”

Tim shrugs, turning away before Angela can dig deeper.

“I give it a week,” Nyla announces.

“Before what?”

“He can’t take it anymore.”

✯✯✯✯✯

“Domestic disturbance in your area,” dispatch alerts.

Tim grabs the radio, accepting the call as he hits the sirens and turns into a residential area. You chew the inside of your bottom lip; domestic calls are your least favorite, especially when kids are involved. Unwilling to show discomfort, you put on your best brave cop face and follow Tim to the door.

A young girl with a bloody nose and teary eyes opens it, and you glance at Tim before kneeling and asking her to come outside. She listens without question, her lower lip wobbling as you smile.

“He’s hurting my mom,” she whimpers.

Tim nods at you before tilting his head toward the shop. You direct the girl to stand at the edge of the porch and wait for you as you follow Tim inside.

“LAPD, put your hands up!” Tim yells as he steps into a bedroom.

Your eyes widen when you see the large man towering over the girl’s mother. He smiles as he reaches for something.

“Don’t move unless you want to give me a reason,” Tim says lowly. “Step away.”

The man looks toward the nightstand before taking a deep breath and giving up. 

“I got it,” Tim tells you before radioing a code 4.

You wait until Tim has the handcuffs secured to walk outside. The girl runs into your arms, and you pop the shop's trunk, setting her down as you retrieve a small first aid kit. She lets you clean her bloody nose, gripping your wrist when it stings.

“Where’s my mom?” she asks.

“She’s talking to my partner right now, she’ll be out in a few minutes,” you explain.

“Is he nice?”

“The nicest,” you answer.

“Mom!” she yells, letting you set her on the ground before she runs to her mom’s side.

“Get in the shop,” Tim commands as he walks past, his hand brushing your arm as he closes the trunk.

You obey, climbing into the passenger seat and waiting as he talks to the EMTs. When he joins you, he drives to a quiet, empty street before switching off his body cam and gesturing for you to do the same.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice softer than you’ve heard.

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t say what I want to hear. Domestic calls are tough but that wasn’t your first one, was it?”

You shake your head, looking out the windshield instead of at Tim.

“We all have reasons for becoming a cop, and some calls are harder than others. As long as your past doesn’t get in the way and put you in danger, it’s okay to be human,” he continues. “TOs are notoriously hard on you, but we’re also here for you.”

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Tim shrugs, one corner of his lips upturned. “No more sappy stuff, we have work to do.”

“Oh, if you think that was sappy, I’ve got a lot to show you before I graduate to short sleeves.”

The comment catches Tim off guard and makes him feel something he didn’t expect.

✯✯✯✯✯

By the end of the first week, you feel like you know Tim well. His hand spread across your back or shoulder when you’re in front of him, his little reminders that you’re not alone, that you can show emotion when the time allows, and every other little thing he does makes you wonder why there are so many horror stories around his teaching style.

Likewise, Tim thinks he has you down. You ask him questions, ask for his opinions, listen and apply what he says, and send him small smiles when he compliments your work.

But, it only takes a shift to realize that people are multi-faceted, and cops and rookies are no different.

“Good morning,” you greet, passing Tim a small box.

“What is this? A bribe?” he asks.

You smile as you reply, “Nope. Just something I found, and I thought you’d like.”

Tim opens the box, his eyes widening at the 2000 Super Bowl tickets, the Rams’ first win. “I can’t accept these.”

“They were under a bookshelf in my apartment, it’s not like I spent a million dollars on them, Officer Bradford.”

Tucking them into his pocket, Tim opens your door. “Thank you.”

You smile, and Tim thinks your joy is the better gift.

✯✯✯✯✯

During your first call of that day, you show Tim that you don’t just value his opinions.

“Shots fired!” you radio as you duck behind the car.

“Are you hit?” Tim asks.

Shaking your head, you move closer, trusting him to direct you and keep you safe. The men in the house you were called to have automatic weapons, and though you’re a good shot, you’re not a match for their guns alone.

“Backup is on the way, but I need you to do something for me. You trust me?” Tim adds.

“I do.”

“Reach around the back and open the trunk; just far enough to reach the latch. I’ll cover you.”

He stands above you, firing into the shattered window of the house as you slip your arm and back around the end of the shop and open the trunk.

“Good, perfect,” Tim praises as he ducks beside you. His knuckles graze yours as he leans past you. “Can you reach the shotguns?”

Glancing in the window above you, you locate them quickly. “I can.”

“Do it. I got you.”

Once the shotguns are in your hands, you pass one to Tim as you ready your own. Timing your shots, you take out two shooters just as your backup arrives.

“You’re bleeding,” Tim says, his adrenaline dropping as a tactical team takes over.

You look at your arm, just noticing your ripped sleeve and bloody skin. Tim lays his hands on your arm as he turns it toward him.

“I think it was just glass from the windshield,” you say quietly, pointing to the car behind you, riddled with bullet holes and broken glass.

“Either way, we need to get it checked out.”

“Officer Bradford?” you interject. “Thank you. For making sure I trust you.”

“Thanks for trusting me,” he mutters, so soft you can barely hear it.

He taps the Super Bowl tickets in his pocket as he rises to get a paramedic to check on you, and you smile, wondering how bad it would be if you fell in love with your TO.

✯✯✯✯✯

“You’re quieter than usual,” Tim points out. “I need to know that whatever is bothering you won’t impair your ability to work with me.”

“It won’t,” you promise. “Sorry.”

Tim considers pressing, but he trusts you. “I’m here. If you decide you want to talk about it.”

He exits the shop and opens your door before you can reach for the handle.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Did you see that?” Nyla gushes, elbowing Angela.

“Ow. See what?”

Nyla points to Tim, closing your door and laying a hand on your shoulder as he ducks his head to talk to you.

“That’s not a reprimand,” Angela deduces.

When you smile, a tiny upturning of your lips, Nyla laughs.

“Oh, that boy… The door, the touches, listening to her? He’s gone.”

“Not just him,” Angela adds. “She asks him questions, smiles at him, trusts him more than anyone… and the Super Bowl tickets? They’re adorable.”

“Should we do something?”

“Not yet. I think they’re close to realizing.”

✯✯✯✯✯

After your longest, and worst, day yet, you find yourself in a hospital waiting room beside Tim. He hasn't said anything since a speeding driver ran into your side of the shop, though you've apologized countless times (even though there's nothing you could have done).

Tim’s jaw is clenched so tight you’re worried it will snap. You’re sitting close to him, a bandage around your wrist and an ice pack pressed to your cheek.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

“Stop- stop apologizing, it’s not your fault,” Tim sighs.

His arm is on the armrest between you, and you move your hand toward his. When he doesn’t back away, you turn your arm to allow your knuckles to brush against his.

“It’s not your fault,” you tell him kindly. “He ran a red light.”

“And you could’ve been killed,” Tim replies, standing abruptly and walking away.

You slump in your seat, dejected and curious about what you could say to make him stop blaming himself for someone running into you.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Tim and his rookie sitting in a tree,” Nyla sings under her breath.

“I don’t have time for this right now,” Tim replies.

“Right, because you’re too busy being mad that she got hurt. Cops get hurt Tim,” Angela reminds him.

“Not with me,” he begins, pausing to take a deep breath. “Despite what you think, I’m upset that she got hurt, not because I’m in love with her.”

“Whatever you got to hear, buddy,” Nyla replies. “But tell me this. If it was Nolan when he was a boot, would you have felt this bad? Even if I believed you didn’t have feelings for her, which I don’t, you’re different with her and you know it.”

Tim sighs, looking out the door at you. He knows it’s true; despite his constant denial, he does treat you differently because you are different, and you’re like a magnet, incapable of being ignored or forgotten. Finally confessing it to himself, Tim knows that his feelings for you will get one or both of you in trouble unless something changes.

✯✯✯✯✯

“It is time for The Switch,” Wade says as he walks into the bullpen. “The day you ride with a new TO.”

You glance at Tim, who gives you an encouraging nod. He tells you that you’re a great rookie, but he also tells you that you’re pretty sometimes, which doesn’t seem pertinent (or always true, in your eyes). Wade says your name, and you look up.

“You’re with Nolan,” he tells you.

Smiling at Nolan, you cross your fingers under the desk that it’s a good day. 

“Henderson,” you call as he stands up, “what’s Nolan like?”

“He’s great. Really understanding and knowledgeable. A little talkative, but fairly easy going. Just stick to protocol and listen to his directions; you’ll be fine.”

“What about Bradford?” Vincent asks you. “Everyone says he’s the toughest. Anything I should be aware of?”

“I don’t think so. He’s quiet sometimes, but he’s great.”

You collect your war bag with the expectation of a good day. You will miss Tim, but learning how another TO teaches and his views can be invaluable. As you slide into the driver’s seat beside Nolan, you realize something: you like Tim as more than your TO. He means more to you than just being your teacher, your mentor, and a trustworthy officer. The thought hits you so suddenly you're not sure where it came from.

With each passing moment, you find yourself remembering something Tim said or wanting to tell him something, but he isn’t there. Nolan is kind and laughs at your muttered comments, but it is nothing like riding with Tim. As you think about all the little things Tim does, everything begins to make sense.

Someone yells your name when you step out of the shop to get lunch. Turning, you’re surprised to see Vincent storming up to you.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demands.

“Tell you what?”

“That Bradford has ‘Tim Tests’ and nothing pleases him!”

You glance over his shoulder, finding Tim and Nolan talking. Tim glances over at you, and the tension in his shoulders seems to ease until Nolan says something else.

“His Tim Tests aren’t that bad; he’s just teaching you awareness and safety.”

“He wants to end my career,” Vincent exclaims before muttering something about you not understanding as he walks away.

✯✯✯✯✯

“How’s Vincent doing?” Nolan asks.

“That kid has no situational awareness,” Tim answers. “I stopped at a street sign, and he couldn’t figure out where we were.”

“He’s probably scared of you,” Nyla interjects. “And, no, Bradford, I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

“My rookie can tell me where I am, no matter what,” Tim adds.

“Your rookie is very good, I’ll give you that,” Nolan replies. “But Vincent has potential. Besides, your boot has people problems.”

Tim glances over at you, locking eyes with you while Vincent talks to you dramatically.

“So do I, but I’m still a good cop.”

Nyla watches as both you and Tim sigh before abandoning the conversations you’re in. She shakes her head, calculating her winnings if the betting pool goes her way.

✯✯✯✯✯

Walking out of the locker room at the end of the day, you’re surprised to be called into Sergeant Grey’s office. You sit across from him, fiddling with the hem of your shirt to spend your nervous energy.

“You are being assigned to a new TO. Officer Bradford has decided to hand you off to someone better equipped to teach you,” Grey informs. “But you’re not in trouble.”

You still your hands in your lap. “Okay. Effective when?”

“Monday morning. So, rest up.”

As you stand, Grey says your name, smiling as he repeats, “You’re not in trouble. This was Bradford’s decision, nothing to do with you. Well, nothing to do with you as a rookie.”

You purse your lips at his phrasing, and he chuckles before sending you out. Walking through the parking lot, you see Tim’s truck is still there and decide to ask him what happened. Standing by the tailgate, you chew your bottom lip as you wait, nervous that you did something, though Wade assured you differently.

Tim walks up unnoticed, saying your name to get your attention.

“What did I do wrong?” you ask, jumping straight to your questions. “I can fix it; there has to be a way to fix it.”

“You didn’t do anything,” Tim promises. “I just can’t be your TO anymore.”

“Why not?”

Tim shifts his backpack on his shoulder. “It’s not appropriate.”

Your heart drops. Tim knows you have feelings for him, and it makes him uncomfortable; that’s the only explanation. Nodding slowly, you accept your fate.

“And I can’t do this,” Tim adds.

His hands slide onto your jaw, his palms against your cheeks as his fingers settle behind your ears, pulling you into a quick kiss. You only begin to respond when he pulls back.

“You’re the best boot I’ve ever had,” he whispers, brushing his thumbs over the apples of your cheeks.

“I’m not your boot anymore,” you remind him.

“That’s your fault. Those little gifts, and soft smiles, and how well you listen… You make it impossible not to fall for you.”

You laugh, leaning against his hands as you reply, “You do too. How do you think I felt when you called me pretty or touched my back? Then you kept comforting me and inviting me to talk. It was too easy.”

“Go to dinner with me?” he asks.

You nod, smiling against his hands before he moves to touch your back again, opening the passenger door as he helps you in. Tim slips his hand into yours, kissing your knuckles as he keeps you close.

✯✯✯✯✯

When the rest of the rookies leave the station, noticing that your car is still there, they ask each other if anyone has seen you.

“Bradford’s truck is gone,” Nyla notices as she walks out.

“Looks like we won,” Angela cheers.

“Where’s Bradford?” Vincent asks.

“On a date,” Nyla answers. “With his former boot.”

The rookies’ jaws drop, wondering how you managed to pull Mid-Wilshire’s resident grump.

“Don’t expect the same to happen to you,” Angela says as she passes the rookies. “We all worked for this one.”

[lilioopdf]

no cz i felt so bad and sad for paul watching the sp austria podium !! i literally wanted to bawl my eyes out cz he looked so :/ seeing prema. i feel like i watched him relive the fact that hes no longer part of their team after being a prema boy for SO LONG! and the way he was dropped by merc and prema was so painful js ugh, obviously he was happy to score another podium but idk that ceremony js looked so painful and the way he didnt smile as much watching them or like didnt take a picture w js him and ollie and the awkwardness of the final podium photo on the top step w the engineer its js- omg- cz im sure he knows all of them very well and to all of a sudden no be part of that anymore must be in the very least super sad and bittersweet no im so glad to finalky let this out to someone it’s literally SO PAINFUL TO THINK ABOUT OMFG ! like im sure hes happy where he is now but idk bro that podium for him js looked so off esp w prema celebrating and he kinda just 🧍 wtv im gonna stop this is so long now LMAO

WE LOVE YOU PAUL CONTINUE PROVING MERC AND PREMA WRONG AND LETS GET THAT F1 SEAT (i beg)

bro omg right like i actually never really thought about it until that moment in the chasing the dream ep where the camera zoomed into ollie’s face and then back at rene looking up all emotional and proud and meaningful and then like i thought about paul who was also up there on the podium and i wondered like… did he ever accidentally glance at rene then? for a moment, did he think he was back at prema? that rene’s proud look was for him, instead of ollie? it must’ve happened, right? and all i could hear in my head during that moment was that mitski song tbh, you know the one that goes, “tell your baby, that i’m your baby”

THERES A TIKTOK TREND ABOUT THIS TOO!! about parents forgetting to treat the oldest child like their child too and like idk if my info is right but im pretty sure paul joined prema before ollie did… and paul is older too, isn’t he? so like 😕😕😕😕😕

and during the press conference afterwards ollie did say “yeah he’s (paul) gonna win the championship and he doesn’t even care!” in a very lighthearted tone and paul did smile and laugh a little but like 😕😕

maybe paul did want this at first. i think he really did want to outshine everyone, to beat everyone, especially prema, for dropping him, maybe kimi too, for having the two things he wanted— an F2 seat with prema and to be a part of the merc junior academy.

he got it though, didn’t he? he’s now leading the championship, breaking records for the longest held podium streak in F2, and he’s so well known and so far ahead of prema and ollie and kimi… but i can’t help but think that despite all this, he’s not genuinely happy, and probably never will be, because of the hurt and betrayal he faced from BOTH merc and prema within the same year.

like i think it’s a wound that’s def not very easy to work through, and i think despite everything that he has going on for him right now (all his accomplishments and such) he’s still having to deal with a bit of an inferiority complex yk? because like no matter how hard he tries he just wasn’t the priority, or the favourite (and i might just be forcing this image onto him based on my personal biases but still 😭😭)

and you bringing up that picture with that engineer genuinely almost made me cry because i never even thought about that and now ☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️

i wonder how he’s doing after the ollie to haas news though, he probably needs a hug and a break and some favouritism from the higher ups to get through this rn 😕😕

[captainnameless]

I do agree that max drove a great race and was ahead of the apex on lap 55, and whilst I would say lando did deserve the penalty in some way, I was surprised that max hadn’t gotten a penalty as well or been the only one to at least, since in the regulations it says that the driver being overtook has to be within track limits which shows he’s in control of the car, and since max was very obviously not in track limits, then that would go against the regulations so he probably should’ve gotten the penalty for it. they even said on the document that lando had to go wide in order to not cause an accident, and that’s why they didn’t add it to his tally of track limits which is why he didn’t get another penalty. this whole thing is confusing.

I agree with lap 1 though, as lap 1 incidents normally don’t and honestly shouldn’t be penalised but lap 55? i’m quite confused by the inconsistency of the penalties🫣

But really tho, not much anyone can do now since the decisions been made🤷‍♀️ no hate to u though, if i’m wrong in any of this then u or someone else can pull me up on it ofc🙏🤍

if those are the regulations (do you have a link for me?) then they still don’t apply in this instance, do they? i’m always willing to be corrected/learn more but Max had switched to being the overtaker (not the car being overtook) at least that’s what i gathered from Sky Sports’ analyst Anthony Davidson (who really would not be defending Max if he had any doubt to go off of). i’ll link the video for you here.

and i still think that there just isn’t an instance where you can overtake outside of the white lines if you hadn’t been objectively ahead for a while or at the apex first, that would seem a little silly to me? and i feel like if those were then regulations that McLaren would have been at the stewards with a black and white printed sheet immediately to overturn the penalty because “not much anyone can do now a decision has been made” is not true… penalties can be overturned, it also says so in the paperwork that teams have the right to appeal this decision. Aston Martin did for Fernando Alonso and got his podium reinstated. link

and what would Max have gotten a penalty for? he was ahead at the apex, so he cant get a penalty for “forcing another driver off track” (right? willing to be corrected here as always) and he did get a strike for track limits, but that was only his second one, so he can’t get a penalty for track limits either?

so again, what would we be giving Max a penalty for? bc i don’t necessarily agree Max wasn’t in control of the car, he turned the car and barely went over track limits. (which again, doesn’t excuse a track limits violation but it wasn’t his fourth strike so no penalty there)

a lot of the time even lap 1 incidents will be penalized if it shows the driver wasn’t in control of the car (George Russell getting a penalty for taking out Carlos Sainz in T1 at the Austin GP 2022, for example) so i feel like if McLaren had any reasonable doubt Max wasn’t in control of the car or had regulations backing up their driver they would’ve thrown the rulebook at the stewards. and maybe they are, i haven’t checked yet if they have appealed the decision but i honestly doubt they have.

so, in my humble opinion, there wasn’t any inconsistency regarding the penalties this week. stewards had been on the penalty dealing. 4 were dished out and McLaren should have never risked it.

anyway that’s my opinion, thank you for sharing yours! <3 i genuinely mean it when i say i’m always open to be corrected or taught something i may have overlooked.

[leclercsbf]

hii, i’m then anon with the long ask :)

and thank you so much for picking up on so many thing that i hadn’t realised, like the pic of both of them for the post about the qualifying results, the pr team are working their a***** off and i love them for it

and also YES it does look like carlos is taking it one step at time and just testing the waters with the entire time i hadn’t realised that he only really smiled when he saw charles was okay with his i like my teammate thing and the way he moved to the other side to stay closer to charles cause george was in the way is just *chefs kiss* and everyone’s so right, if he doesn’t care about charles like some people seem to thing i don’t think he would be taking initiative to try to make things better. he could just brush this whole thing off and wait for it to simmer down itself if they were just teammates and he didn’t give a shit but he’s genuinely actively trying and that just shows that they do actually respect and get along with each other at the very least.

also charles with that smile everytime he talks about carlos does seem like it’s second nature to him and it honestly just remind me of me when im mad with my partner or my best friends, like yes i am mad at them but yes i am also going to be smiling and acting super proud whenever i get the chance to talk about them because it is second nature to me and it’s more of a subconscious thing if anything.

honestly this whole thing with everyone putting their two cents is just very reassuring because they will be alright eventually <3

also please, i LOVE LOVE LOVE your brainrot and you could never disappoint with your fics :)

every time i see a new post about charlos on here i go straight to your page to see how you’ve tagged it and what you’ve said it because it’s always so good

welcome back, anon! and it’s no trouble at all. i’m usually a rare pair sort of guy so all those years of working with Literal Crumbs taught me to pick up on absolutely everything. the way they interact is just so... just SOOO... compelling. everything about them, absolutely everything about them. they drive me insane.

even when things don’t look quite right there’s still so much to be said. not to be That Guy, but the fics practically write themselves. but yeah, very excited about today! we’re going to get drivers’ parade content as well, so that’s something to look forward to. i’m pretty optimistic that things would be a lot less tense, because there’s nothing a strong bond and a pair of big brown eyes can’t fix. as for the race, definitely hoping for a double ferrari podium because we all deserve it. truly. it’ll also help with the mood, i’m sure.

thank you so much! honestly fic writing is just an endless cycle of liking your own work one day, hating it the next, lather, rinse, and repeat, but i’ll keep at it. AND HELLO NOT MY TAGS... i’m so sorry for subjecting you to that insanity, anon. i’m glad you’re having fun though. ♥️

[safetycar-restart]

WAG!CHARLES!!!!!!

he'd be your absolute BIGGEST fan! he'd accompany you to literally every single race he can, if not every single one of them. he'd be attached to you in the paddock constantly, holding your hand and just supporting you all the way.

(you'd pick his outfits 97% of the time except for that 3% where he comes up with something good himself.)

he's still super subby and carefree around you, like a super clingy, giggly ball of sunshine. he's always smiling at the cameras when you two walk into the paddock, or when he's watching you in the garage, cause he's a good boy!

he's there to kiss all over your face no matter where you finish, he'll be there to comfort you for dnfs or bad races, and there at every single podium celebration when you win or get on the podium. every time. and you will always make eye contact with him from the top step, and catch him with his sparkly eyes glued on you with a proud smile on his face. like his look is saying "that's my girl". he has at least 5 photos and/or videos from every single podium you've been on, and has most of your pirelli caps hung in the living room (as well as your helmets). you've dedicated several helmets for him, and those have a special place in the living room.

and if you're a wdc, well wow!!!! charles is the proudest little boy ever! he will literally be talking about it to EVERYBODY, telling people how "my girlfriend is an f1 world champion! and she's so talented and amazing! i'm her boyfriend!" and he wears his boyfriend title like a MEDAL.

basically, yes. your #1 fan, charles leclerc.

- 📓

I knew you’d be in my askbox with some absolutely amazing thoughts about this. Honestly this AU is my new obsession and I hope everyone else loves it as much as I do.

I fully agree that Charles would be your biggest fan! He’s just so proud of you!!!! Of course he’s gonna attend every race he can, he’s your boyfriend that’s his job! (Lowkey sugar baby vibes we could make a sugar wag verse).

Love the idea of you choosing his outfits because he has the most horrible fashion sense. But also because he really just loves going to the track in whatever you’ve picked for him?

Especially if you have merch. If you have merch, he will live in your merch. He will also push for you to have a sweater that had your surname on the back just so that he can wear it around the paddock.

He truly is your own ball of sunshine, always smiling because he’s so happy to be with you and to be supporting you and being your good boy. Your team love him too, by the way. Not only because he makes you happy, but because he’s honestly just so nice to be around?

He’s always sweet to them and loves learning about F1 from them and always offers to bring them coffees or snacks whenever he goes to the hospitality.

Of course the fans and the press love him too. Especially because he’s always helping fans get things signed? He’ll run along the long lines of fans and take random caps and pictures to bring to you to sign and then run them back and grab some more. He genuinely loves doing it because he knows he’s helping you and making the fans happy. He’s also always willing to take a picture of you and a fan.

And as much as he’s super happy whenever you do well, he truly doesn’t care what result you get. Of course he’d love for you to win every race, but he’s always there for you no matter what.

In fact he’s especially there whenever you do poorly? He’s always ready with hugs and encouraging words and kisses.

But also, if you crash? Tears. Every time. He literally sobs every single time and won’t stop crying until he knows you’re okay. Even if you just tapped the barrier and ended up in the gravel and could immediately get out the car and walk back the garage. He’d be in tears by the time you got back anyway.

He’s a sensitive little thing!! He can’t be your subby supportive good boy without being sensitive and emotional.

But that’s okay, you always reassure him that you’re okay and let him check you over. Also if you ever do get injured and get instructions from a doctor on recovery, then lord help you because you WILL be following every single step of your recovery program charles will make sure of that.

There’s no getting out of bed on day 6 when the program says a week of bed rest absolutely not charles will not allow it.

But anyway back to the actual content of the ask:

He loves podiums so much!! He’s always right in front and he always gets the first hug. Always. Doesn’t matter if your parents or team principles are right there too. The first hug will always belong to Charles.

He also posts about 30000 Instagram stories about the race and podium because he’s just so proud!! And of course steals your podium hat. That’s his now. He collects them all.

He’s just so proud of you and so happy to be your boyfriend and everyone must know!! You guys truly make the best team.

He also sits on the seat you normally sit on in the garage during races, sometimes he’ll actually curl up in it like a little puppy and it’s the best thing ever. The cameras always find him there and he’s often shown whenever you make an overtake because he’s always smiling so wide and cheering.

[alexanderossis]

(I went with Britcedes... I had to)

Lewis watches it all from a few steps behind.

He watches George cross the line in front of him, sees the Mercedes team scattered along the wall by the finish line, screaming and cheering. He expects to feel some sort of sadness or anger— like he should have pushed for team orders so he could win. But he doesn’t.

For the first time, he feels almost weightless. Like he doesn’t have to hold Mercedes up anymore, like if he were to retire now, he would leave with something more than the trophies. He would leave George to follow in his footsteps, to do what he’s done.

He waits to watch George pull up in Parc Ferme and watches George jump into the crowd of waiting Mercedes mechanics and team members. He remembers doing the same thing so many times and it’s… nice that George gets to have it now. The jealousy and remorse that usually floods his system when a teammate does well, it’s gone. Nothing comes to him except pride and… love. He thinks. Love.

He and George have been dating for half a year now and he’s known, since they first met, that George was his forever. Ten years ago he’d never have believed it, that he’d find someone and feel that way. But he’s less cynical now, worn down by the passing of time and a tall, lanky British boy— who is currently running towards him and pulling him into a tight hug.

“I’m so proud of you,” Lewis tries to say, but it’s muffled by the helmets and balaclavas and the roaring of the crowd.

“I love you,” George tries the same, but Lewis can’t hear it.

Lewis watches from the second step of the podium as George literally jumps with joy on the top step. He knows that when he sees the photos later, the smile from the second step will be a real, genuine, love-sick grin.

They go to take the photo and Lewis can’t get up to the top step, so he reaches for George’s waist, and tries to pull himself up. George stills from his celebration and peers down at Lewis to help him up and the world stops spinning for a few seconds when George’s gaze is on him and him alone. Everything drowns out around them and it’s just George. His beautiful, loving, hard-working George.

But then Carlos and James join them and he’s snapped out of it. George’s watery blue eyes turn back to the crowd and Lewis can take a breath again.

Lewis watches from the garage as George is swept up in interviews, everyone falling over themselves to talk to the winner. Lewis remembers what it feels like and it’s actually okay that they don’t want to talk to him. He’s okay to watch from next to Angela and just take it all in.

Lewis watches from the next seat over in the press conference. They ask him some stuff about Max, and with all of the celebrating, Lewis had almost forgotten that Max had crashed into him during the race. He says something that he can’t remember now, acutely attuned to every move George makes next to him. The way that he fiddles with his microphone, the stray confetti still clinging to him, how he’s champagne soaked, and dazzling.

And then finally, Lewis isn’t watching from afar anymore. No, he’s got George right in front of him, all his passion and focus and beauty only for Lewis now and it’s so overwhelming and perfect.

George looks up at him from the couch and gives a soft smile. Lewis is standing a few steps away, smoothing his racing suit half with anxiety, half with anticipation. He’s going to tell him.

George reaches out a hand, “Penny for your thoughts?”

“I think mine are worth at least a pound,” Lewis teases and flops down on the couch next to George.

“Why are you so far away?” George presses a kiss behind Lewis’ ear, “I won, don’t I deserve to have you on my lap?”

Lewis laughs and readjusts, straddling George’s lap and putting his hands on either side of George’s head on the back of the couch, caging them in, shutting out the outside world so that it’s just them.

“You didn’t tell me what you’re thinking about,” George pushes, and he always does, he pushes Lewis to be better, to say more, to feel more.

“Well,” Lewis presses a kiss to George’s nose, “I’m thinking about a few of things.”

He presses a kiss to George’s cheek, “I’m thinking about how my boyfriend won his first race in Formula 1.”

He presses a kiss to George’s other cheek, “I’m thinking about how I thought I would feel a bit upset that it wasn’t me but I don’t.”

George opens his mouth to interject but Lewis doesn’t let him. He presses a kiss to George’s lips, “and I’m thinking about the fact that I love you.”

Lewis feels George’s breath catch, and he tries not to look away, tries to show George that he’s not afraid of this, that they can do it.

“I-” George sniffs, “I love you too.”

And Lewis thought that George might not have any tears left in him after the win, but a few spill from his eyes. Lewis reaches up to wipe them away and kisses George’s eyes as they flutter closed.

“I’m so proud of you,” Lewis hugs him tighter, “And I’m so glad I was there to see it happen.”

“I wouldn’t have wanted it to happen any other way,” George wraps his arms around Lewis’ neck.

“You deserve it,” Lewis says into George’s hair. The gel is long gone from race sweat and champagne and now it’s soft, floppy, just the way that Lewis likes it.

“I wish that-” George starts but trails off.

“What, baby?”

“I wish that it was you.”

“No, you don’t.” Lewis smiles sadly.

“I do but I also don’t.” George sighs, “I wish we both could have won.”

“We did,” Lewis pulls back slightly and tilts George’s head up to look at him, “I feel like I won because you won.”

“Stop,” George blushes.

“I’m serious,” Lewis smoothes his thumb across George’s jaw, “I don’t feel anything other than happy for you.”

“I’m honoured that Sir Lewis Hamilton feels happy for me.” George teases.

“Jerk,” Lewis pokes his chest, “Here I am, pouring my heart out to you and you tease me!”

“I’m sorry,” George muffles Lewis’ protests with his lips, kissing him eager and steady.

“You’re not,” Lewis grins.

“I’m not.”

Lewis rolls his eyes and kisses down George’s neck, the taller man tilting his head back to give him more room.

“Mm you taste like champagne,” Lewis murmurs.

“God,” George groans, “I’m so lucky.”

Lewis responds by licking up the column of his neck, relishing in the vibrations he feels as George moans his name.

George’s hands fall to his hair and Lewis lets himself be overwhelmed by just being in George’s presence. His large, practiced hands urging him on, the feeling of George’s body against him, the smell of fuel, champagne and something that is just so perfectly George, it feels like home.

They fall into a rhythm and George is rolling his hips and he didn’t win but it feels like euphoria anyway.

And then Angela knocks on the door and Lewis groans frustratedly. 

“I know what you’re doing in there!” Angela sing songs from the door, “But we have a debrief in 5 minutes.”

“Okay!” Lewis calls back tersely, and tries to resume his plan of letting his hands and lips across George’s body.

“Lewis,” George groans, partly from resignation that they are needed elsewhere, partly from Lewis’ lips against his naval.

“Don’t want to stop,” Lewis murmurs against his skin.

“We have to,” George sits up, putting an arm around Lewis so he doesn’t fall off of the couch.

“But we’re celebrating,” Lewis pouts.

“Come on,” George pushes him to his feet and follows suit, pulling Lewis in for one last kiss, “There will be plenty of time to celebrate properly later.”

“Fine, but I’m holding you to that.”

And he watches with a smile on his face as George walks out of the room towards his first ever F1 race win debrief.

I feel like Lewis has come so far as a person and a teammate and I just wanted to show this all from his perspective. No smut, I’ll leave that to the pros who I’m sure are writing it now or have written it. Hope you enjoyed <3 

Read on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43064709

[danthropologie]

honestly it’s not even just that checo’s seat is the one he’s most likely to get if he manages to get himself back into a top teams seat it’s 1) red bull has a much better car than merc so if you do get a race you’re more likely to get a podium 2) you have a higher chance of adapting to the car and regaining all your confidence even if it’s just behind the scenes 3) the team already knows and loves you

like Daniel could genuinely decide next year that he does want to retire and if that’s the case wouldn’t he much rather spend the year with people he has a long and established relationship with rather than spending a whole year awkwardly sitting next to Toto - especially if no ones sick and he doesn’t get a race and he can’t be used for the rookie fp1 sessions either

yeah exactly!! and from the rbr side of it as well, it seems like such an easy and obvious choice? they know what a good driver he is, they know how marketable he is, there's a personal connection there (literally driving horner to his wedding!!), and you know that christian is 100% petty enough that if he caught wind of a daniel to merc rumor, he'd at least attempt to swoop in and poach him out from under them just for shits and giggles. and why not when picking him up for a reserve driver role is such a low stakes option for the team? if it works, great and the team is better for it; if not, they still have checo so no harm no foul.

of course, going back would take daniel swallowing his pride a little bit, but from the way he's been talking and the goals that he's been reiterating over and over again—being back at the front, competing for wins and podiums, etc—i think he'd be willing to do that if it gave him a path back to the top

[avintagekiss24]

day with destiny | b. barnes

→ pairing: aristocrat!bucky barnes x aristocrat!black!reader

→ word count: 3000

→ warnings: 18+ ONLY, smut, sex, biting kink

→ challenge: @cockslut-padalecki​ not my ninth

trope: aristocratic society

song prompt: crush by jennifer paige

→ square filled: @star-spangled-bingo​ 2021

g5: clothed sex

→ author note: i was finally able to reign myself in with these word counts, lol. i saw this gif of baby faced sebastian and couldn’t help myself. he looks like a little shit, but look at those pink lips… anyway, these are modern!aristocrats. lyrics to crush aren’t obvious (except for one line at the very end), but worked into the dialogue. i have no idea who made the gif, i got it from google. i also have no idea who made this divider, as i also got it from the google.

Blue eyes peer over at you from across the table, the gaze searing into the side of your face. A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, but you don’t dare cut your eyes— this game is entirely too fun to give in now. Instead, you take a deep breath, pushing your chest out— your tits— shifting roughly in your seat just to make your flesh jiggle, before you release the air slowly.

Cabinet meetings are never fun. Rich, old white men going on and on about their views for the country— your family of course bringing the only sense of color into the society. Some old man yammers on at the front of the room behind the podium. Heads nod, claps ring out at random intervals, loud here here’s filling your ears as you roll your eyes. You don’t have the least bit of interest in any of it as it stands today, but your blue blood, and rank in the family— poised to take over for your dear old daddy in the coming years— requires your presence.

Bucky Barnes is quite the same. Young, bored, and too damn pretty for his own fucking good. You squeeze your legs together abruptly, the images of the last cabinet meeting playing back in your mind. Hot, sticky breath. Reddened, swollen lips— against your ear, sucking on your skin. The salt that exploded on your tongue as he shoved his thumb into your mouth.

You stand quick, clearing your throat— sending a silent message to the youngest Barnes at the long table. A hand grabs your wrist, stopping you as you start to move towards the back of the room, “Mother?”

“This is important, daughter,” she whispers harsh— a warning.

“And so is my bladder, mother.”

She sighs heavily, but releases the grip around your wrist, “Yours and the Barnes boy, apparently.”

Flicking your eyes quickly, you smirk as he pushes his chair underneath the table and starts towards the large doors at the back of the room, rubbing at his chin with his hand, the sunlight glinting off of the rings adorning his long fingers. You watch him as he moves— so easy, so confident— as he runs his hand through his dark, perfectly clipped hair, the Loubotins on his feet clicking softly.

You only drop your eyes when he slips through the door and out of view, “Ten minutes, mother.”

She knows. She knows that you know she knows, but she just sighs again and lets you saunter off without a second glance. Dress dragging behind you, bottom lip sucked between your teeth, heart and blood starting to race as each step draws you closer to your silver tongued foe, lying in wait for you in a random, deserted hallway.

He’s leaned against the wall, gazing out over the city beneath, hands drawn into his pockets. He’s a sight, but he always is, each little brown hair in place, chin and cheeks so clean shaven that a hair wouldn’t even dare sprout. Body lean in that black military jacket, gold medals and hand stitched ribbons hanging from the pockets.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” you smile soft, crossing your arms over your chest, leaning against the very same wall.

Bucky glances over his shoulder, that shit grin he’s such a proud owner of spreading on his face, “Then stop propositioning me.”

You laugh— it’s gentle and soft, the dissonance of your long relationship easily melting away. He finally turns and takes a few steps towards you, extending his hand, tenderly taking your fingers. Those deep, emotional eyes stay on yours as he lifts your hand, lips brushing— glancing ever so lightly over the backs of your delicate, manicured digits. Then he smiles, slow, sweet, teeth sinking into his blushed bottom lip as he blinks just as slow.

He’s a sight, this Bucky Barnes.

Keenly aware of his family’s teetering reputation, hanging on by a mere thread as of late due to his fathers extra curricular proclivities, you can’t help but take a swipe, “I’m surprised you’re family’s allowed back in the building. It got a little tense last time you all were here.”

“It did, didn’t it?” he answers quickly, placing your hand on his shoulder before he pulls you in close— a long arm wrapping your waist, pinning you to him, “I don’t remember much though, as my face was buried in your cunt for most of the meeting.”

Shivers race the length of your spine. He feels it— revels in it— savors it.

Lively brown eyes bounce back and forth between heavy, brewing blues, “You aren’t afraid that the rest of them will move to vote your family out, Lord Barnes?”

“Not in the slightest,” you’re met with a defiant shrug, “I hate this shit.”

“Oh, how original! An aristocrat that hates the god given privilege bestowed upon him.” You sigh, tilting your head towards the ceiling as he nuzzles into your neck, your hands sliding up and over his shoulders, “You’re predictable, Barnes.”

“You’re one to talk about privilege, My Lady.”

“Am I?” You retort quick, quirking an eyebrow.

A brilliant smile is cast upon you, blue irises like gems, sparkling under the light, “Your blood is the richest in the room— the bluest of blue— and you speak with such animosity of mine as if you haven’t prevailed your entire life because of it.”

“Bested by the color of our skin, which has precluded my lineage of its rightful place for years,” you scoff, leaning into him, “It was not privilege that got us here, Lord Barnes,” you whisper, “It was persistence.”

He chuckles against your skin, the vibrations rattling through your body, right to your bones. Hot velvet slips along the curve of the junction between your shoulder and neck before teeth scrape and then sink— tenderly— right into the meat, making you gasp. Hands grip, fingers dig into his opposite shoulder as he nips and nibbles.

“You’ll lose everything,” you breathe, heavy, languid as his mouth, his tongue, his lips move to your jaw, your chin, “Your family will be ruined.”

“I’ll be okay,” Bucky hums low, a smile on his face, dark eyelashes splashed over his pink tinged cheeks. His long fingers play with your lips, prodding gently as he rests his forehead to yours, “With a face like mine baby,” he whispers, that devilish smile painting his red tinted lips, “I was born to marry rich.”

He pushes his leg between yours, spreading them, pushing the meat of his thigh right against your sex— the thin silk of your panties sticking to the balmy, wet flesh. The tips of his fingers flirting with the inside of your calf before pushing up over your knee, skirting up your own ticklish thigh.

Bucky takes pleasure in the honeyed giggle that bubbles in your chest and slips out of your mouth, knowing not just anyone can coax such a genuine reaction from you. Metal fingers push higher— sweeping softly, back and forth, over the powder pink silk panties, discovering the warm wet spot, a white hot fire filling his eyes.

“Will you marry me?”

You grunt some, leaning in, putting full lips right against his ear, “Absolutely not,” the words whispered.

“You sure?” he squints, drawing your face back in front of his, thumbing at your bottom lip, pulling it open, “There’s something in those eyes.”

“Let’s not over analyze, Lord Barnes,” you tisk, slipping a hand between your bodies, cupping his cock— squeezing his heat— with care of course, “Don’t go too deep with it. It’s just—”

“What?” brisk, curt— the words cut off by a feverish, deep kiss. Tongue licking into your mouth, sweeping against the roof— heavy, hot, rushed, desperate for you as he groans, “What is it?”

You pull at his belt, at the button and zipper, hand and fingers sinking into his open pants, pushing through a rough, dark, tuft of wiry hair. He whirrs, strained and broken, body clenching up as your warm palm wraps around him. Long, slow strokes pull more tiny sounds from him— a skilled muscle memory, what he likes, what he doesn’t, what he needs— taking over.

A sweet kiss, soft and quick, is pressed against his cheek, your lips against his ear once more, “It’s just a little crush, Bucky. Just some little thing that raises my adrenaline when I need a shot.” His cock jumps in your hand, a quick hiss and stunted grunt filling your ears as you lick your lips, “Don’t make too much of it.”

Bucky grabs your face, squeezing your cheeks hard, puckering your lips before he kisses you feverishly again. The cool metal digits grab your neck, a soft pressure constricting the muscles as he pushes you back, back against the window— using his body to crush you to it.

The smack of his lips disconnecting from yours ricochets off the walls, filling the small hallway. He licks your lips, dragging his tongue from your chin right to the tip of your nose as he anchors your leg on his hip. Hot flesh fingers slip up your thigh, pulling your panties to the side, the cool air sending a shock to the wet, delicate flesh of you. He sucks that bottom lip back between his perfect teeth, tilting his head back slightly to peer at you through those long, dark eyelashes.

You mimic him. Tilt your head back on the glass, sink your teeth into your swollen lip, hand still stroking him slow, wetting the pads of your fingers with his silk. His hips rock soft into your palm as you sweep your fingers over his tip before dragging back down his length, gripping him firm. With a quick blink, you’re staring at him— angry, thick, throbbing in your hand. A bead bubbles out, spills right over, a long string hanging from his reddened tip before his cock twitches again— leaving you breathless. Knees almost buckling. Mouth going dry as your lungs struggle to fill.

“Come on, baby,” Bucky purrs, goading you as you push his cock through your folds, rolling your hips, teasing your waiting slit with his tip.

Surprise sweeps through you when frankly, it shouldn’t as you sink down on him. The muscle memory of your hands don’t translate to the muscles of your cunt— his size, how much you have to spread to accommodate him, like a revelation each and every time. Bucky almost never rushes it, and neither do you, like it’s something new every time.

But it isn’t, no no, it’s ancient for the two of you. Connecting like this in long, skinny hallways, cramped closets, old hotel rooms under the mask of darkness. The muffled sounds of your sex as you try and ultimately fail to keep quiet, filling the abandoned spaces— bringing life to them again.

Loneliness often fills your chest if you go too long without it.

Bucky is buried to the hilt in you now— rooted deep in the tightest, hottest space of your body. He takes a minute, pushing his hips, wiggling— adjusting— before he pulls out slow. All the way, cock bouncing as soon as it breaks the threshold. He doesn’t wait long though. Nope. He’s back inside of you within seconds with a slam of his hips, pushing you up the window. Pulling a squeak and a rush of air from you.

Those red lips of his part, his heavy tongue pushing out to slip along his bottom lip as his eyelids drop, covering the blue you’ve come to enjoy. You can’t help but reach out, place your warm palms and fingers on his blushed cheeks, tracing his nose before they prod at his bottom lip, the tips just sinking into that wet mouth. He draws long breaths, exhales them all over your face as he starts to move.

You let the rhythm carry you away. Up into the clouds as your head rolls to the side, hands fall to his chest and around his neck. Tits bounce with each shove, starting to spill over and fall out of the square shaped neckline of your intricate dress. Hair starts to fall out of place, heat rises in your cheeks, desperate little wet noises beseeching him.

Bucky’s a good fuck. Ever the playboy, never thinking twice of an encounter until— well, you, as he so softly put it one night in one of those dark, old hotel rooms while you both dressed. There’s a filth to it. The way he toys with you. Speeding up suddenly— skin slapping, echoing down the hall— and then, without warning or hesitation, slows down. Down to nothing almost. Soft pulses of his hips, just enough to drive you mad. To make you beg him for more.

To make you weak. To keep you coming back.

That’s how he is now. Barely moving, wanting you to squirm. Two big eyes, pupils blown stare up at you. Mouth agape, the smallest little curve on them. He wants you to beg. To tell him just how much— “Bucky,”

“Yes?” he shoves hard, pushing deep, “My Lady?”

“Please,” there it is, the beg— the want, “Please, Bucky.”

So, the filth is back. Yeah, it’s a little dirty how he grips your thigh, hard, nails digging and scratching into the meat of it. How he licks into your mouth and bites your lips before shoving that metal hand into your neckline, palming the delicate mound of flesh beneath. A brown nipple is soon exposed, tight and hard, after a quick tug of his hand yanks your dress down. It disappears again within a flash, right into his mouth, tongue circling.

An arch curves your spine when he sucks, a deep, low, stressed grunt sounding from somewhere deep in your chest. Your lips pucker, forming an o as you breathe heavy, then gasp quick before digging your teeth into your bottom lip and inhaling sharp. An already tight grip on his bicep and left shoulder constricts even more as he really picks up the pace, desperate and feverish his hips, tongue slipping into your cleavage.

There’s nothing but sounds and sensations— the squelch and squeak of his cock stuffing you, your stiletto slipping off the foot that’s hooked around his waist and thudding against the floor. The gold medals pinned to his military jacket bouncing soft against the thick material. His metal fingers tapping against the windows as he holds his weight.

Flashes of heat ripple through your body— muscles tensing and straining, cunt clenching, clamping. Fists balling. Stomach and head twirling as he gives you his best. And God, do you appreciate his effort.

The fuse proves to be short on this crisp winter day. A coil that had no chance of staying intact snaps earlier than you expect, body tightening hard, nearly freezing you in place the second before you start to come. Crying out— no shame, no sense of care if anyone hears— you just let it take over. Let him drive it home, hips snapping against yours, jutting, thrusting, pushing and pulling, sending you higher and higher.

Goosebumps on your skin. Heartbeat in your ears. A white hot flash, nearly blinding— it’s just that good. Metal fingers sink between your legs, playing with your clit, enticing it further as it spasms— wanting to feel every last bit of what your body has to offer.

Bucky hammers away, until he can’t. You’re just too sweet— too warm and wet and inviting. He’s painting your insides white within minutes, hot, quick shots of silk, filling you up, and then spilling back out. His head falls heavy to your chest as the last digs of his hips work themselves out, lips sticking to your damp, exposed skin.

You wrap him up, hands and fingers splaying out on his back, holding him tight and close as he empties and stills. Then, the two of you just breathe. Let the day, the room full of people, your families, your duties, just fade away. It’s just you and Bucky and that cool window against your overly warm skin.

It breaks— the moment. Just as it always does. Your body becomes empty as he tucks back into his pants. No longer pinned to the window, you bend to replace your shoe, pull at your dress. Bucky runs his thick fingers through his dark hair, you picking and smoothing at your own.

Stepping off after a few sobering moments without so much as a look or a smile, you're caught, a tight hand around your wrist, pulling you back. You crash into his chest, crash against his lips in one last, deep, sweeping kiss. One that once he pulls away, your eyes stay closed, lips stay puckered.

“You sure you won’t marry me?”

You know that if he asks one more time, your resolve will fizzle— and you will, “Very sure.”

A lopsided grin covers his mouth as he tilts his head, “Just a pesky little crush, huh?”

“There’s no vision of you and me quite yet, Lord Barnes,” you sigh, turning away and stepping  down the hall, “You just pray that I don’t decide to join the rest of the party and vote you out.”

“Make sure you keep a copy of your vote for me. I’ll want to frame it.”

You throw him a quick glance, “And why would you do something like that?”

“So I can show our children just how mean mommy was to daddy before we got married,” he starts, buttoning up his jacket. He kisses the pads of his fingers and blows on them lightly, sending you a kiss, “I have white picket fences in my eyes.”

Without another word, he spins on his heel and takes off in the opposite direction. A hum vibrates in your throat. The sounds of your heels and his shoes slap against the walls as the two of you walk away from each other.

It doesn’t take a scientist to understand what’s going on, baby.

[mettywiththenotes]

OKAY BUT did you know Mera is the first HC member we ever meet?

Not Hawks, not the Chairwoman, but Mera. Just some guy on a podium

Like idk what it is about the fact that he’s the first one we see, but it feels special in a way, that he’s introduced before anybody else

And his speech! His speech at the License exam

Like I can’t explain it, but some of his words feel genuine. If anything, he is at least a good motivational speaker, inspiring the future generation moving forward

Focusing on potential, I have spoken about this, but Mera’s mention of potential is eye-catching to me. Like it’s one thing if you think that this speech was some kind of HC script, but it’s another when you remember Mera is the FIRST member we ever meet

And when you think about it, all HC examples of potential have ended up in failures. Nagant was used for her potential and she ended up killing the Chairman, Hawks’ potential was arguably taken advantage of as a small child and he was groomed by the Chairwoman (which, by the way, the Chairwoman had every chance not to make the same mistakes as the Chairman did. She even watched as he welcomed Nagant, looking uncomfortable at what they were going to do. And yet even when Nagant killed Chairman, she didn’t want her to be executed, she instead put her into Tartarus, which tells me she does have some sympathy for Nagant’s situation. Yet even after all of that, she still agrees to Keigo, she still takes in this child and allows him to be groomed.) That kind of potential turns sour when you know what Hawks has done, what he felt he had to do, when he knows he’s already so strong and dependable but is never given an option to say no

Even Chairwoman herself, who had the potential to change, who had the potential to not make the same mistake twice, still did in a roundabout way. With a few more changes though that she felt were important. I’ve talked about this here

Mera though? Mera is the FIRST MEMBER we see, he’s the first member other than Chairman or Chairwoman or Hawks or Nagant who hasn’t done anything to lose his position

In fact, with him, potential is framed in such a positive light. He speaks inspiration into these kids and, even with that exhausted look on his face, he doesn’t make light of it nor does he disguise the truth

And unlike the Chairman and Chairwoman, he gives an option. A chance to the students who failed. Nagant was never given a chance or choice, neither was Hawks, but here we have one person, a LEADER offering a CHANCE AND A CHOICE to the people before him

And so, what is Mera’s potential? What is he, if not some sleepy guy on a podium? What makes him different from the others? What can he do, as a member of the HC, that differs from the rest?

What is Mera’s potential? And what will he do now? I wonder if we’ll be shown

If not an incredible chairman (which I don’t expect him to be with all the work he has to do), he is at least an inspirational speaker. Perhaps the future, for now, needs someone like him. Perhaps a chance and a choice should be given to those who have fallen through the cracks

Perhaps Mera is exactly who should be in position of chairman right now

[hyuckssunchip]

[5:34 pm]

Pairings: Jeno x Reader, ft. Haechan

Words: 1.3K

Warnings: Language (there is almost always language in my writings), fluff

Synopsis:

college studying boyfriend drabble

Jeno desperately is trying to do his homework as last minute as it can get. 

“Can I look at your homework?” You lifted your eyes from your computer to find Jeno shooting you those begging eyes that you could never resist.

“Jeno it’s due in like half an hour, but go for it.” You pulled the packet out of your backpack, sliding it to him. “You really shouldn’t wait so long. I’d have given it to you earlier if you just ask.”

He grinned, eyes crinkling as he opened up the booklet. “I didn’t have time, I was at practice all day yesterday.”

You ran your hands through your hair. “Too busy to ask for a picture? Honestly the amount of unnecessary stress that you get from this isn’t worth it.”

Jeno didn’t look up from his scribbling as he replied, “It’s not stressful, I know you’ll give it to me.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning your head onto your hand, eyeing him. “You’re lucky that it’s math class, otherwise it’d be suspicious how similar our answers are for every assignment.”

His pen paused over the paper. “It’s not every assignment.” He whined at you before hurrying back. Jeno glanced at his phone, the minutes were counting down.

You laughed at him enjoying his struggle. 

“It’s not really that funny Y/N.” He gave you a quick teasing glare. 

“It kinda is.” At this point you had abandoned your own books and chose to solely watch him. Jeno had his tongue slightly sticking out in focus as his hand moved across the page. 

“How do you even pass the tests? You never actually do the homework.” You asked, curious at his good standing despite his lack of apparent effort.

He shrugged. “I don’t know, I’m a good guesser I guess.”

You snorted, “Good guesser my ass. Our math tests are all free response.”

Jeno didn’t reply and you tilted your head, focusing your attention on him for the next fifteen minutes in silence.

“Don’t be fucking creepy Y/N.” You heard the chair next to you scratch against the tile.

“It’s not creepy. He’s my boyfriend I can watch him whenever I want to.” You stuck your tongue out at Haechan as he sank into the chair.

“Right. It’s not creepy when you do it, but when I do it it’s weird.” He huffed, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, cause you do it when he’s sleeping. That’s just weird.” You squinted your eyes at him with a frown on your face.

Haechan turned his attention away from you stubbornly before actually taking a look at Jeno. He snorted, “Cheating off Y/N again?”

Jeno didn’t bother acknowledging him, “It’s not cheating, just collaborative.”

“Yeah, Y/N does the work and then you write it in your own handwriting.”

“If she was willing to give you hers you’d do it too.” Jeno accused him with a glare before returning to the papers. He was almost done and three of you would have to leave for class soon.

“No I wouldn’t. Because I’m diligent and smart.” He turned up his nose before turning to face you, “But if you’re ever feeling insanely generous, I’m more than willing to receive answers.”

Haechan shot you a toothy grin, which fell off his face when you shoved him, and obvious no in your actions .

He shrugged, “It was worth a try.”

You picked up your phone, realizing that it was time to go. “Jeno, are you almost done?” 

“Almost.” He bit his lip, scribbling twice as fast as he was before.

“We’re going to be late.” Haechan sang out, teasing Jeno distractingly.

“Shut up.” You smacked the back of his head softly. “Don’t be mean.”

“How was that mean? I just said that we were going to be late.” He cried out, rubbing his head dramatically.

“It was the way that you said it.”

“It was the way that you said it.” He mocked you, but quickly moving away to dodge the second smack he was dangerously close to receiving. 

“Jeno. We should really get going now.” You were putting your books and papers into your backpack.

“Okay. I’ll just do it while we’re walking.” He mumbled, standing up dazedly, still scribbling.

You giggled, “How are you going to do that?”

Jeno looked up for the first time in a while, eyes darting to Haechan.

Haechan shook his head, already knowing that something was up. Jeno silently took Haechan’s backpack and made the boy wear it on his front.

“I’ll use Haechan’s back.” He smiled sweetly at you as your own grin widened. 

“No. Who said that you could use my back?” Haechan pouted, but still obliging when Jeno turned him around using force. 

Haechan didn’t really stand a chance against Jeno’s strength and he had learned to just go with it before he really resorts to force.

“Ow, that hurts.” Haechan dramatically whined as Jeno pressed especially hard against him.

“No it doesn’t.”

“Um, yes it does.” He replied, “And how would you know? You’re the one doing the stabbing, not being stabbed.”

“Because this hurts.” Jeno pushed the pen hard against the paper that was on Haechan’s back, purposefully adding more strength.

Haechan squirmed away and turned to face Jeno with a wide eyed expression. “Ow.”

Jeno grinned, motioning for him to turn around again. 

Haechan shook his head horrified, “No way. You’re gonna do it again.” 

“I’m not, just come here.” He smiled and eventually Haechan obliged. 

“You’re boyfriend’s a psycho.” Haechan muttered to you.

“Shhh. In case you didn’t notice he’s got a pointy object against your back.” You giggled, eyeing your boyfriend who didn’t seem to hear it, intensely focused on his writing.

Haechan gulped and for the rest of the way he kept his snarky comments to himself.

The three of you sink into three empty seats towards the back of the lecture hall. Jeno whispered to you that he was done and handed the packet back to you before sprawling out in his seat as if he was exhausted. 

“Jesus my fingers hurt like hell.” He groaned, eyes widening at the red marks that now stood out. 

“Alright, let’s get started.” Your professor walked to the front podium with his notes. 

The students slowly settled down, voices eventually petering out.

“Quick announcement before we get into the lesson. A lot of students had emailed me over the weekend saying that they needed more time to finish the assignment so it’s been extended until Wednesday.” You professor announced and you struggled to stifle a laugh at the way that Jeno’s face fell. 

Haechan didn’t even try, snickering and jabbing his elbow into his friend’s side. 

“Are you kidding me?” He muttered under his breath, staring at his hands in disbelief. 

“If you didn’t procrastinate so long you wouldn’t have struggled like that.” You scolded him teasingly, knowing that you were just pushing his buttons.

“No. If anything it’s more reason to procrastinate. My fingers wouldn’t have had to suffer and I would have had extra time.” He groaned, arguing with you.

“You know he’s got a point.” Haechan nodded before shutting up at the sight of your glare. “Or not.”

“All I’m saying is text me the night before maybe? Or maybe I should just send it to you and then I don’t have to go through this headache with you.” 

“No. This is fun. I enjoy watching this. Don’t make it not fun.” Haechan pouted, looking genuinely worried that you would take away his source of entertainment.

“It’s heartening to know that you enjoy my suffering.” Jeno glared at the boy.

“Is that new news?” Haechan asked, slightly disappointed that it had taken so long for Jeno to get it. 

“No. We just thought that you would at least have the class to not admit it out loud.” You poked at him.

“Okay. Shut up. I can’t hear the lecture.” Haechan averted the attention.

“You’re just salty cause you were losing.” You muttered, picking up your pencil to take notes.

The fact that Haechan didn’t reply gave you satisfaction.

“No. I think I’m losing. I’m stuck in between the two of you.” Jeno said with exasperation staring incredulously at the two of you in turn, then shaking his head. 

© Copyright 2021. hyuckssunchip. All rights reserved.

[lightsovermonaco]

His Good Sweater: Chapter 13

Masterlist

Thanks to @acollectionofficsandshit​ for being my bestie and beta reading! This would have never happened without her ❤ Make sure you read Roman Profile, set in the same universe!

Word Count: 6.7k

Recommended song: "Cupid’s Chokehold/Breakfast in America” by Gym Class Heroes

"I have to go."

"Can't you stay five more minutes?"

"I wish."

"Come on, just a few more minutes to cuddle." Pierre flings back the fluffy duvet and holds out a hand. "Please?"

"I have an exam," you say with a sigh but bend to press a kiss to his upturned palm. "I can't skip."

Pierre groans and slings an arm over his eyes. "What am I supposed to do all day?"

"I don't have a sim but I have an old PlayStation you're more than welcome to use. I think I still have one or two games."

"That won't keep me busy."

"I'm sure you'll find something. Just stay out of trouble okay? I'd like to get my security deposit back when I finally move out of this hellhole."

"Okay," Pierre grumbles, sitting up to give you a quick kiss. "What time are you getting back?"

"Four. We can go out to dinner or something." You smooth a hand over his hair, smiling lightly. "Or we can go for a picnic and take a walk through Saint James Park."

"Sounds like a plan." He turns his head to kiss your palm. "I'll be counting down the minutes."

You roll your eyes but your smile contradicts the sass. "I'll be home before you know it. Love you, champion."

"I love you too, mon coeur."

He was endlessly grateful for how easily the two of you had fallen back into each other. When he had shown up at your doorstep he had expected there to be awkward pauses and minutes of tense silence, but there had been blissfully little of either. As the days bleed into each other, your relationship only gets steadier, closer and closer to what it used to be. Maybe it was because you had been the one to break the silence or maybe it was because he had thrown himself into his career into someone's bed- whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. He was simply grateful to be welcomed back into your life. He didn't plan on leaving any time soon.

Pierre allows himself a half hour of lounging in bed before forcing himself to get up and shower. Off weeks were hard; all he wanted to do was rest and recharge but he still had to follow his workout regimen and sleep schedule or he risked falling out of the habit, making it that much harder to get back in the groove come race week.

First order of business: clean the clutter you had shoved in closets and the spare room prior to his arrival the day before. Folding the three baskets of clean laundry took an hour, washing dishes another thirty minutes, and vacuuming the entire flat took twenty. Once the counters are spotless and there isn’t a stray sock to be found, he takes stock of your pantry and notes what staples you were running low on.

Two hours later he trudges back up the three flights of stairs to your apartment, arms laden with reusable bags packed to the gills with food. His legs burn and he's slightly winded from the excursion; at least that could count as his work out for the day.

He's just about to start slicing vegetables for dinner when his phone chimes with a text from his PR agent, Sylvie.

You're supposed to be in an interview now. Where are you?

"Oh shit." He scrambles for his laptop which of course was dead. He manages to plug it in at the dining room table and angle it so the background is mostly neutral, just a band poster framed behind him. He checks his hair before logging into the interview.

"There's the star," the interviewer says, far too chipper to be entirely genuine.

"Sorry, I was having connection issues." He queues up his signature sweetheart smile that gets him out of any squabbles. It works, the woman's irritation melting into a more easy expression.

"Let's just get right into it. Since we're low on time I'll jump right in, if you don't mind."

Pierre leans back. He had an inkling where this was headed. "By all means, please."

"We just saw news of your deal with Christian Horner- if you take seventh in this year's drivers championship, it looks like you're at Red Bull Racing next year. How does that feel after being publicly demoted mid-season in 2019?"

A smirk tugs at Pierre's lips. He had known this exact question was coming. He had debated how to answer it without starting waves and still remaining truthful. If there was one thing he prided himself on, it was his ability to be diplomatic when others may have let their egos get in the way.

"Obviously I'm grateful that Red Bull has recognized the hard work I've been putting in at Alpha Tauri," he starts. "I think I've been able to push the car as far as I can but I still have pace in me, personally. So moving into the Red Bull would let me loose, so to speak, and give me a chance to prove that Red Bull is where I belong."

"Right, you have had quite a spectacular season so far with a race win under your belt and a few podiums for good measure. What do you attribute that success to? Why is it so different now in an Alpha Tauri versus that coveted second Red Bull seat?"

Pierre purses his lips. The answer he was expected to give wasn't one he was willing to voice. Instead he opts for neutral. "I've been able to focus and hone my driving this season. I've found a groove that works for me and with it has come an insane amount of confidence, which is something I struggled with for awhile after going back to Torro Rosso. I think it's really just that I'm finally comfortable in the car and with my team and that makes a huge difference."

"Thank you for that," the journalist says and Pierre nods. "Shifting gears, I have a few questions about your personal life if you don't mind."

This was the part he always dreads. Questions were often prying and he had to subtly skirt around them in a way that offered a satisfying answer without giving away too much. It was an art he liked to think he had perfected over the years but still didn't enjoy.

"As long as you don't mind me staying silent if I don't want to answer."

The woman laughs, the sound sharp and grating. "Of course. Unless I can bribe you into giving me an exclusive."

"Likely not. But you ask the right questions and we'll see."

"You've been seen hanging around a certain London neighborhood lately- that wouldn't have anything to do with you and your lovely lady, would it?"

He had been waiting for that one, too. When the two of you had returned from Red Bull headquarters he had noticed the man taking pictures across the street. He hadn't said anything to you at the time because really, there was no point in getting you worked up when he had a plan to handle it.

The question played right into his hand, in fact. 

Pierre sits forward, folding his hands in front of him. "Actually yes. We recently got back together and if you'll let me, I would like to make a request."

The woman leans back and checks her notes. "Well it's not quite what I had planned but please," she gives a flourish with a hand, "you have the floor."

"I know driver's personal lives are something that a lot of people are interested in and that's great. I don't mind sharing things with my fans or letting them get the inside scoop, but there's some things I would rather be left alone. My relationship is one of them. I know you all took note that she hasn't been around the past couple months and if I'm being honest, it's because of comments and press coverage that invaded her privacy. I think some people forgot she was more than just a name on a screen."

Pen poised to take notes, the interviewer prompts, "You said you had a request?"

He doesn’t stop to assess the damage he had already undoubtedly done. Sylvie was probably already on the phone doing damage control with every news outlet she could get her hands on, if her muted and black square at the bottom of the screen was an indication. 

"All I'm asking is that you leave her alone. If you have questions or comments you have to make, just direct them at me. Don't follow her around asking about me. Don't comment on her posts unless you're capable of being a decent human. Just… let her live her life in peace."

Maybe he was a love sick fool, but honestly he didn't care if he lost some support from fans. If they had such strong opinions on his personal life, he would be better off without them anyway. And his team could cut him and even if he was unable to secure a seat in Formula 1 after next season, he would survive. 

But if he lost you again, he would be broken. It had taken being apart from you for him to realize it and he'd be damned if he was ever disconnected from you like that again.

"That's quite the speech."

Pierre shrugs. "It was. She's the most important thing in my life, right up there with racing.” Now that he had started down the road of truth, he found it impossible to hold his tongue. “I lost her once because people couldn't be bothered to remember that their words have consequences. I won't let it happen again."

"So you see yourself with her for a long time then?" The woman's eyes glitter with the potential of getting an even juicer tidbit from him.

Pierre’s jaw sets, muscles feathering. "That's not something I'm prepared to discuss."

The woman purses her lips and tips her head to the side. There was clearly more she wanted to say. "Well, I have to thank you for what you've given me here. My boss is gonna love the exclusive. I won't push any further. Thanks for your comments, Pierre."

"Thanks for actually being respectful."

“We aren’t all monsters.” The woman shrugs. ��I can’t say I haven’t had my moments but I try to be straightforward.”

“Right, yeah. I get that you have a job to do.”

“Anyway. I look forward to seeing what you can do the rest of this season. Good luck.”

He signs off and instantly anxiety washes over him. If she twisted his words he was screwed. Sylvie would be on the phone as soon as the article was printed, no doubt trying to soothe sponsors and investors. She'd give him an earful about being respectful and not poking the bear but he'd tune it out like he always did.

The sooner he got away from Red Bull, the better.

Instead of dwelling on it he busies himself with cooking. It was one of his guilty pleasures. He always requested a full kitchen when he was staying anywhere more than a few days so that if he had the chance to make a home-cooked meal, he had the option. For tonight he had selected his favorite recipe. Parmesan-Cesar chicken wasn't normally something you would ever touch with a ten foot pole but as long as he was making it, Pierre knew you'd at least give it a try.

Music blasting in the background, Pierre sings along quietly as he unpacks the rest of the ingredients and gets to work. He does a little spin between the island and the sink, rinsing the dishes and putting them right in the dishwasher as he uses them. A clean kitchen is the mark of a great chef, his mom had told him, drilling the phrase into him when he was young.

In the middle of cutting potatoes Pierre gets a call. He only has an hour until you're home so he doesn't bother stopping, just puts it on speaker and continues measuring spices.

"Hey Daniel."

"Heard you're in London," Daniel says, Australian accent thick. "And a little birdie told me you and your lady got back together."

"We did," Pierre says, a smile splitting his face. "Finally."

"Thank god, now I don't have to listen to your drunk woe-is-me rambling anymore."

Pierre laughs and sets aside the measuring spoons. "It's not that bad."

"Oh please." Pierre could practically hear the eyes rolling. "The number of times I had to send an uber to a bar after a grand prix is insane. Charles and I should be entitled to financial compensation with the amount of babysitting we've been doing."

"I can handle myself!"

"Not after a martini you can't."

He was right there. "Is there a point to this conversation?"

"Oh right- I'm actually in town today too, got some stuff to shoot for McLaren before we head to Austria for the race next week. You guys wanna come out with us tonight? We're heading to a bar or two."

"I actually had something planned-"

"She already said she's coming!" Dan's girlfriend shouts in the background.

“Well then why even ask me?”

“To be polite,” Daniel offers with a laugh. “We’re meeting at the rooftop bar at the Trafalgar hotel at seven. That give you enough time to do whatever you had planned that’s apparently more important than seeing your best mates?”

“We’ll be there,” Pierre says and hangs up. He finishes seasoning the potatoes and pops them in the oven, finally getting a chance to sit while they cook alongside the main course.

He's on his feet a few minutes later, decluttering the last bits of mess around your flat. It was clear it hadn't had a decent cleaning in quite awhile- hopefully you'd keep it tidy now that the effort had been made. The guys would tease him endlessly if they found out he was acting like a housewife.

You arrive home just as he’s setting the table. “God, it smells amazing in here.”

“Salut, mon amour.” Hands full with hot dishes, he settles for a kiss to your cheek. “I made dinner.”

“And you cleaned,” you observe. “You were a busy boy.”

“Pyry would kill me if he found out I was laying around all day. I had to do something.” 

You hang your backpack on the hook behind the door and take a seat at the table. “Well remind me to thank him again when I see him. This looks delicious.”

Pierre grins over his shoulder at you. “Me or the food?”

You throw your head back and laugh, loud and unrestrained. “The food, you goof.”

Pierre quirks a brow. "Is that the honest answer?"

"Okay, maybe both." 

The meal is filled with your ramblings about your exam and your new hobby- this month it was hiking. You went into detail about all the few trails in the city you’d been on as well as the more challenging ones that dotted the countryside. Pierre just nods along as you talk, already planning on staying up late to learn what he could about the topic so he could be a better conversation partner.

The pair of you work together to tidy the kitchen and put away any leftovers. “Did you bring something semi nice to wear tonight or do we have to make a quick trip to the store?”

“I’ve got some Tauri stuff I can wear. And not just team gear,” he adds when you groan. “You know that cream sweater you love? The one with the logo debossed on the front? I’ve got that.”

“Oh,” you say before biting your lip. Your eyes trail down his frame and back up like you’re imagining it on him. A tingle travels up his spine under your assessing gaze. If you kept that up, neither of you would make it out of the apartment tonight. “My favorite. Yeah, wear that. It’ll be on my floor by the end of the night.”

Pierre places his hands on your waist and grins. “Will it? And what will be on the floor from your closet, hm?”

“Your favorite dress.”

“The orange one?” He realizes half a second too late that you would never know how much he adored that dress from the gala. It had hugged your curves in all the right places and left your back exposed, which would leave him free to trace patterns on your soft skin whenever he pleased. He had missed out on worshipping you in it that night and he wouldn’t mind the opportunity to do so now.

You roll your eyes. “I can’t wear that to a bar.”

“Says who?” Pierre nuzzles his face against your neck, breathing you in. A light undercurrent of sweat from your walk home from classes mingles with the usual bright scent of you, only serving to rile him up further. Never in a million years would he have guessed that a simple scent could do him in, and yet here he was, completely wrapped up in yours. 

“Says me.” You sigh, tipping your head to the side when Pierre’s nose grazes your skin.

His lips follow until he reaches your jaw before he pulls back. “What one are you wearing then?”

“Does it matter?” You cross your arms, the smirk playing on your kissable lips tempting him.

“I have to mentally prepare myself.” And if whatever you chose was too sexy, he would need to get his handsiness out of his system before the pair of you met up with Daniel and his girlfriend. The last thing he needed was to be on the front of some seedy gossip column when his plan was to ease back into it. 

You smile up at him, broad and unrestrained as if knowing your answer would affect him greatly. “The cobalt blue one that makes you stutter.”

The dress in question was just as form fitting as the orange one, but shorter and decidedly more distracting. It fell mid thigh and the spaghetti straps left your shoulders exposed, which coupled with the low back displayed a downright sinful amount of skin. You had worn it at a Torro Rosso event a couple years back and he had scarcely been able to get a full sentence out around you all night. 

“That one’s a close second.” He follows you to your room, leaving you to hunt through the closet while he digs through his suitcase, thankful that he had the foresight to check out of his hotel on the way back from Red Bull and bring his things here.

Because there was no way in hell he was missing a second of being by your side while he was in town. Every moment had to count when he had no idea when he would be able to sleep next to you again, not when the season was nearly over and there were two double headers between now and winter break. When so many variables stood between him and you, he had no problem prioritizing you over a routine workout or a full night’s rest.

Pierre changes into the sweater and a pair of dark skinny jeans well before you emerge from the bathroom. He doesn’t bother responding to Dan’s text that includes an address and reminds him to be on time, instead opting to scroll through his instagram feed. He likes a handful of posts from his fellow drivers, including one of Max actually smiling at something off camera.

“Well?”

Pierre’s head snaps up at the sound of your voice. The phone falls from his hand when he drags his eyes over your body, head to toe and back again. 

Oh, he was so fucked. 

Maybe it was selfish, but with your hair done like that, the barest brush of makeup lining your eyes and in that stunningly blue dress, he didn’t want any other man to have the privilege of laying their eyes on you. 

No, you were all his.

The moment you’re within reach, Pierre places his hands on the back of your thighs, just beneath the curve of your barely covered ass. You chuckle and tap your fingers under his chin. “Close your mouth; you’ll catch flies.”

“Just so you know, if you wear that dress I can’t be held liable for my actions.” Up to and including scaring off anyone that wasn’t Daniel or his girlfriend. No one else deserved to be blessed with your radiance. Hell, he didn’t deserve it, and yet here you stood. 

“We’ll see about that.”

**********

Daniel and his girlfriend had already made their way through a round of drinks by the time you arrive. It wasn’t Pierre’s fault he couldn’t keep his hands off you and wound up getting distracted on the drive over.

"Late as always," she greets, kissing your cheek. "Dan got us here fifteen minutes early because he wanted the table with the best view."

"Like our names wouldn't have gotten us the table if we asked," Pierre says, wrapping Daniel in a one-armed hug before kissing his girl’s cheek in a traditional French greeting. "The view is pretty great though."

You were already leaning on the glass partition, hands curled over the edge and undoubtedly leaving behind fingerprints on the pristine surface, completely unfazed by the fact that the other patrons were staring. You had eyes only for the London skyline and Trafalgar square lit up below. The bar with its white marble tabletops and strict dress code was absolutely not a place that you should be standing on your tiptoes for a better view, but there was no way he could condemn you when your face lit up like that.

Pierre just places a hand on the small of your back and shoots a look at the bartender currently glaring in your direction, daring the smartly dressed man to say anything. He only raises a brow and resumes filling drink orders.

"You guys know how to pick a place," you say, "I could stand here all night."

"Right," Daniel's girlfriend says, rolling her eyes at Pierre who shrugs as if to say what do you want me to do? He was powerless to deny you anything that brought you a semblance of joy; your smile was everything to him. “Love, why don’t you come tell us about uni? You’re the only one of us currently enrolled, and I’m sure the boys would love to hear about all the drama.”

You and Pierre share a secret grin. You shake your head but allow him to guide you back to the cocktail table. “Drama? I’m an engineering major. The closest thing we have to drama is someone grossly miscalculating a structural load.”

Dan shoots Pierre a mischievous grin. “I heard Stroll might be moving next year-”

Both you and Daniel’s girlfriend groan at the same time. “No racing talk when we’re around tonight,” she says. “I’ve heard enough lately.”

“What’s new in the publishing world?” You ask, leaning into Pierre when he wraps an arm around you. He only half listens to her explain the so-called “top secret” project she’s currently working on, instead opting to get drunk on you. 

The light breeze filtering through the surrounding buildings ruffles your hair. You lift a hand absentmindedly to tuck it behind your ear in an attempt to keep it out of your face. Everything you do is amazing to him, snagging his attention even when he should be listening to whatever it was his friends were saying. Your gravity was simply too strong to bother resisting.

“Enough talk,” Daniel’s girlfriend says, waving a hand. “You need a drink, and I want to dance. Let’s go.” Before Pierre can protest, she’s dragging you away to the glass top bar. You throw an apologetic glance over your shoulder and Pierre just winks. He was fine watching you from afar for now.

Pierre’s gaze drops to your perky ass when you lean in to let the bartender know what you want, likely shouting to be heard over the music, your dress riding up a bit with the movement. For having such a strict dress code, this place sure did feel like an upper class club.

You hook your thumb over a shoulder, the bartender’s gaze darting to Pierre before the man nods. The only explanation you offer is a wink, followed by a note on a cocktail napkin and a beer delivered a few minutes later by a server.

This is supposed to be the best beer they have. Just try it.

Leave it to you to constantly push him outside his comfort zone. Pierre tentatively sniffs the foamy glass and shrugs before taking a sip. Not bad, but he still preferred his usual whiskey. 

Setting the glass down, Pierre turns back to Daniel. “Congrats on extending your contract with McLaren by the way. Should give you a decent shot at keeping up with the big boys and landing some serious points.”

“Seems like most of us are moving around, doesn’t it? Sainz to Ferrari, Seb to Aston Martin... The only one with any sort of long term commitment is Max and now me I guess.”

“And Charles,” Pierre adds. “He’s stuck in that red monstrosity for the foreseeable future.”

Daniel laughs, taking a swig from his glass. “And you’re moving too, huh? Austria should be interesting,” Daniel remarks, watching the girls at the bar nursing their own drinks. “What with the news of your new contract breaking and all.”

“Potential contract,” Pierre corrects. “Not for sure yet.”

Daniel scoffs. “Come on mate. You won’t have any problem getting up to seventh by the end of the season. Perez is slipping and the news that his seat is in jeopardy will only help your cause.”

Pierre takes a sip of his amber beer and nods. “I’m sure Perez doesn’t appreciate it, but he’s always been a good sport.” You catch Pierre’s eye and lift your fresh flute of champagne in a mock salute. Dan’s girlfriend drags you out on the dancefloor and immediately spins you. Your laugh is nearly audible, the memory of it fresh in Pierre’s mind as he watches you.

“Mate, have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Daniel shakes his head and drains his drink. “I really don’t know how it took you two this long to come together. You’ve been dancing around each other for years but neither of you would admit it.”

“I could say the same about you two.”

Daniel shrugs. “Fair point. At least we got it all worked out in a weekend though.”

Pierre rolls his eyes and shoves his friend’s shoulder. “Whatever. Not all of us can have a perfect love story.” 

The grin Daniel shoots Pierre is pure sunshine. “How long are you planning on waiting before you ask her to marry you?”

“What?” Pierre sputters, nearly choking on air. “Who said anything about marriage?”

“Oh come on,” Dan says, rolling his eyes. “We all know it’s coming eventually.”

Pierre would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it. But he wasn’t sure if it was the time for a proposal, not when you had just gotten back together. The last thing he wanted to do was go through the pain of losing you again because he was too forward.

“One day at a time,” Pierre says finally, dragging himself back to earth. “I just got her back a few days ago. I don't want to scare her off by proposing just yet.”

“Right. Well you might want to get a ring on that hand sooner rather than later,” Daniel notes, gesturing to the two men who had approached the girls. “How long are we gonna let that go on before we step in?” Neither of you paid the men any attention, instead enjoying each other’s company, but the men’s eyes roaming over your body sets Pierre on edge.

“They can handle themselves,” Pierre remarks, shifting on his feet. The weak attempt at self assurance didn’t do much to negate the red tinting his vision. “They’re fine.”

“Her sharp tongue will hold them at bay,” Daniel says, winking at his girlfriend. “For a while at least.” Props to Daniel for possessing inhuman amounts of restraint, but Pierre’s muscles were coiled and ready to interject at the first sign of trouble. 

He has to pause to remind himself he doesn't own you. You could make your own decisions about who you spoke with and who you entertained as long as he was the one to take you home. He didn't care if you wanted to flirt; he knew it meant nothing and if you got a free drink out if it then so be it. But those were the rules: flirting, no touching. He'd step in if need be if someone took it too far.

But that didn't mean he had to enjoy it.

Pierre watches tight lipped as you politely chat with the man, your body language closed off and dismissive. Pierre hates that you even speak a word to him. He knows it shouldn’t bother him because he trusts you, but the stranger is a wild card. Pierre watches like a hawk as the man inches ever closer, slowly interesting himself into your personal space. He waits for you to take a step back, to grant him that silent permission to come over and insert himself in the conversation and get his hands on you, this proving you weren't on the market.

One of the men shouts something at you over the music and you leer back at him, clearly disgusted at whatever he had said. Whirling on him, you open your mouth, likely to snap out a profanity lined retort, when his hand latches onto your arm.

"Oh, fuck no."

Half a second later, Pierre is stalking across the dance floor, no thoughts other than teaching the asshole a lesson. His hands are already curled into fists, ready to swing if the man hadn't moved by the time he arrived. Tolerating someone hitting on you was one thing, but blatantly ignoring the clear dismissals and laying a hand on you? No way in hell was he standing by and letting that happen.

The resounding crack of your open hand hitting the man’s face has pride swelling in Pierre’s chest. That’s my girl. You’d solved the problem before he’d even arrived. You jab a finger in the man’s face, Daniel’s girlfriend right there with you to back you up.

“Fuck off,” you were saying as Pierre approached, “or do you need to go back to kindergarten and learn to keep your hands to yourself? Maybe next time you’ll think twice before laying a hand on a taken woman- or any woman, for that matter.”

Driving your point home, Pierre slips an arm around your waist and pulls you in until your back is flush to his chest. You crane your neck up, the tense muscles beneath his fingertips and the fury contorting your features confirming just how rattled you are.

The lines creasing your brow are soothed away when you realize who holds you. You open your mouth to say something but Pierre places a hand on your throat, thumb and forefinger framing your jaw as he cuts you off with a kiss, his eyes locked on the guy still standing off to the side holding his cheek. 

You taste like the champagne you’d been sipping all night. It’s the only thought in his head outside of the jealousy licking through his veins like wildfire as he claims you then and there in front of the crowd. Mine, his heart sings. He flexes his fingers, taking advantage of your surprised gasp to slide his tongue against yours. Mine, mine, mine.

Pierre lets you be the one to break away, lips curling in a smug, kiss-swollen smile as you address the men. “In case you still don’t get the picture, I’m not interested. And neither is she.” You jerk your chin, indicating your friend and Daniel, who had indeed followed Pierre and since mirrored his possessive stance, one arm wrapped tightly around his own girlfriend.

The two men reluctantly slink away after mumbling something unintelligible but undoubtedly indecent. It had been a week and a half since he had been on track and he had plenty of pent up aggression to get out. He didn’t normally opt for using someone’s face as a punching back as a stress reliever, but rulers were made to be broken. Your hand splayed on Pierre’s chest is all that stops him from following and asking them to repeat themselves.

“Just let me hit him,” Pierre says, voice far more level and put together than he had expected it to be. “Just one punch. That’s all I would need.” His knuckles smart like he had already connected them to the man’s face. 

“And let you throw away your contract? I don’t think so. The last thing you need is a blurry photo of you knocking someone’s teeth in hitting the front page of every gossip mag in the country. I’m fine, so you can cut the bravado.”

“Yeah, I hear you.” 

“I was wondering how long you were gonna leave us out here,” you say, trying to regain Pierre’s attention. When it doesn’t work, you grasp his stubbled chin and force him to look at you. “I didn’t expect to be stranded for so long.”

The eye contact is what finally calms his racing thoughts. Seeing the trust reflected in your face is enough to have his grip on your waist loosening to allow you to face him. “Someone convinced me you could fend for yourself. And while it seems that’s true, I couldn’t stand it anymore.” 

Your satisfied hum is swallowed by the pounding bass but Pierre feels it rumble in his chest. “Sometimes even a queen needs saving.”

Though his point had long since been proven, Pierre’s hand slides down your back to rest on your ass nonetheless. “I knew you going out looking like this would cause trouble.”

You tip your head to the side, feigning innocence as you press your hips to his. You grin, noticing the hard on that had been bothering him all night. “Looking like what?”

“Drop dead fucking gorgeous,” he says, accentuating his point by sliding his hand up your thigh and under the hem of your dress. “You know I’m tearing this off you the second we get home, right?”

“Why do you think I wore it?”

The sound that escapes him is primal and possessive. The presence of bystanders does nothing to prevent him from palming your ass and kneading the flesh. He presses his lips to your neck and mumbles between kisses, “To torture me.”

You push lightly at his chest, laughing although your eyes dart around the space in search of cameras. Old habits were hard to break. “That may have been part of my motivation. But you’ll have to wait. I haven’t seen Dan in forever and I would actually like to have a conversation with him before we sneak off somewhere.”

At least you knew he wouldn’t be able to wait until you got home to get between your legs. “Fine,” he grumbles, hands settling on your hips. “Only because I love you.”

You beam up at him. “Love you too.”

Arm still slung around your waist, Pierre nods at Daniel and follows the other couple back to the table.

After two more drinks, you and Daniel's girlfriend are singing along to the music in lilting, off key voices, simply enjoying the night air. A stray breeze catches your hair just as you turn to look at Pierre and his heart damn near leaps out of his chest.

To his credit, Pierre’s cheeks are rosy from more than just the charged glances you throw at him as the night wears on. He was on his fourth beer, far more than he usually drank these days, and the buzzing in his head was becoming increasingly hard to ignore. When he has to squint to tell the time on his watch, he figured that was enough.

"I should probably get going mate," Pierre says, turning to Daniel. "Early flight."

Daniel laughs and beacons for the girls. He kisses his girlfriend's cheek when she returns with you in tow. "Are we leaving already?" You pout, and Pierre had half a mind to stay simply have your smile make an encore appearance.

"Car coming," he murmurs, dipping his head to give you a proper kiss. God, you were stunning in that dress- he might not be able to string together words coherently, but he knew that much. 

"Fine." You cross your arms for a split second to convey your feelings on the matter before wrapping your friends in a hug and saying your goodbyes.

Pierre's hand is already on your ass before you're in the uber. Get a few drinks in the boy and he let his guard down. You laugh and pull out of his embrace to usher him into the sleek black suv. If he had been coherent, he probably would have chatted with the driver about the specs of the engine or maybe even racing if he was a fan. Instead the ride is filled with stolen touches and sloppy, wet kisses to your neck.

"I can't wait till we're home," he mumbles. "You're gorgeous. How did I snag you? You're so far out of my league. No way should you be with me."

"I have a thing for guys that go fast in circles on the weekends." 

"Really?" Pierre frowns. "Should I be worried?"

"No. You're the only one I have eyes for." His head is fuzzier than when you left the bar but your laugh breaks through, his stomach flipping at the melody of it. "And we are home."

Pierre blinks, realizing he does indeed stand in your kitchen, with no recollection of climbing the three flights of stairs between the street and your flat. "Oh. When did that happen?"

"After I half dragged you up the stairs." You bend over to undo the straps of your heels, giving him the perfect view. He lets out a whistle that ends in a hiccup.

"Take me to bed, lover," he says in what he thinks is a husky voice. It should be impossible for you to resist.

You roll your eyes and wrap an arm around his middle. "That's the plan. I'll take you to bed, strip you out of that sweater, and you'll be asleep before your head hits the pillow."

"Nnnnnno," he protests, hand sliding down your exposed back to settle at the base of your spine. "I wanna make the most of tonight. I leave tomorrow."

"You don't leave until noon," you point out. "Plenty of time to nurse your hangover and have fun before then, after you drink some water and get some sleep."

"But baby-"

"No buts. Do as I say or I'll send you off tomorrow without a goodbye kiss."

Even in his half drunken state he knew it was a swiss cheese lie, spotted with holes and completely stale. You'd never let him leave without a kiss goodbye because neither of you knew if it would be the last time. He was a race car driver after all, and that came with risks. 

But he sighs anyways and slips off the cream sweater, letting it fall to the floor. At least one of you kept their promises. 

After confirming he was settled into bed, you retreat to the bathroom. His heart aches at the absence, even though you're mere feet away with nothing but a thin door separating the two of you. He registers the sound of the tap turning on and your soft, off key humming of the last song he remembered hearing before getting out of the uber.

"Mon amour," he croons when you re-emerge in a set of silk pajamas. He reaches out his hands for you and you slide under the covers, immediately slotting your body against his. A leg hitches over his hip, tugging him closer until your middles touch.

"Mmm," he mumbles, nuzzling into your neck. "Je t'aime. Tu es l'amour de ma vie et nous vivons d'amour et d'eau fraîche."

"I have no idea what you're saying," you whisper, running your fingers through his hair. "But I like it. Feel free to keep going."

"Tes baisers sont du feu et je fond à ton toucher." He presses his lips to your neck before resuming his mumbled French. "Je pense toujours à toi. Je veux être avec toi pour toujours. Tu as mon cœur et je ne voudrais pas qu'il en soit autrement."

"I like the sound of that." You press a soft, sweet kiss to his forehead. God, that tenderness was why he loved you. That, and your personality, and your eyes, and your… everything. "Dormir, my love. I'll be here to listen to your pretty words in the morning."

The single word of his mother tongue on your lips has him smiling. "Oui, tu le feras. Parce que tu es à moi et je suis à toi."

@seasidetom @flashcal @limp-wrist-max​ @sunshinesewis @lifeofzoemichael @ninuffi @perfectfantasies22 @lamboleglerg @ladyperceval @0forgottenparadise0 @evie-pr @avsensio @ninuffi @lu-morningstar @ggaslyp1 @swiftyhowlz

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[giomagnetism]

7, 15, 29 for Marlo

180 Splatoon OC Questions

7. Do they take part in ink battles? What kind and how often?

Nope! Like I just kind of half-answered Marlo’s just not built for them. Sometimes he’ll tag along with Rome but he’s enormously out of practice and unfamiliar with the new meta; to give you an idea, he quit just after the specials ban, over five years ago. He’s a solid C rank in all Ranked modes so that should tell you which he’ll opt for.

15. What is their main weapon? How did they pick it, and is it customized?

He’s had a few over the years; his first real main was the Splash-o-matic, but he changed it out for the Aerospray RG after the campaign. Nowadays he uses the Neo Sploosh-o-matic (or, well, just the Sploosh so far in Splatsville) only. You might think he’d be an excellent backliner with his favor for slow movement and high damage output, but he both strongly dislikes and is now physically incapable of using a lot of those qualifying weapons. I.E., he has all the strength to use a Dynamo, but no stability, and even if he hasn’t loathed Splatlings all his life (and for no particular reason) he can’t aim with them. You might convince him to use an Explosher?

Marlo actually prioritizes ink coverage and a high fire-rate, mostly thanks to the Hero Shot and how adjusted he got to its ridiculous ink capacity and everything. He didn’t know anything about kits or stats when he picked the Splash, so that one was just because it felt good to use, and the RG because for those aforementioned traits and its Inkstrikes (still his favorite special). But the Neo Sploosh was definitely the most deliberate choice; its low range’s suited to his bad depth perception, and its kit (Squid Beakons and Tenta Missiles) is both the least physically taxing and best back-up of the trio. It best reflects his actual fighting style, in which you have to be very close for him to be effective, but he’s savage once you are, and he relies heavily on stage control in order to get there.

His RG had some stickers on it thanks to his teammates but none of his other weapons are customized. He’s just not that kind of guy.

29. What’s a situation that would make them cry? Do they cry easily?

I’m gonna be honest, if Marlo’s crying it’s crocodile tears. It takes a lot for them to cry out of genuine emotion; Marlo pins it back until they snap, until nothing within their power could shore them back up. Like although it’s true that Marlo doesn’t like to cry in front of others, in practice it doesn’t matter, because if they’ve reached that breaking point they could be on a podium and still not find it in themself to stop.

Marlo’s a manipulator. Full stop; they’re reliant on folks owing a debt of sympathy to them. Combine that with the fact that their persona is almost entirely manufactured, and you have a person with very few qualms about and a great familiarity with crying just to make someone go along with them. So that’s the type of situation in which most others would know them to cry, though still, it’s usually a last resort.

I don’t know if I could name one in which Marlo‘d cry out of genuine emotion because it’s often a compilation of factors at the end of a long road of other factors. I can tell you they’d often burst into tears with Leit, because their physical and emotional fragility post-Metro and the unbearable reality of being loved pushed them over easily. Marlo was crying while Ness brought them back from Hozuki estate and tried to treat them. But they didn’t cry when they lost their eye, and they didn’t cry over the campaign until months later, when it finally sank in.

Marlo doesn’t cry often not because they’re especially resilient or emotionally constipated; it’s because if they let themself, they’d never stop. Their misery would consume them. Marlo has so thoroughly fucked themself over and knows it that to admit it would render them immobile: they’re an embodiment of grief and rage, and they manage to function only on the strength of their conviction that they’re not. Even the fact that they’re manipulative compounds that; reinforces their own belief that they’re fundamentally evil, but they don’t think they can be loved using another method. Marlo cries when the reality of that breaks through. It isn’t very often, but it is a raw wound.

[dakotafinely]

Risetober Day 2: Pizza!

(Is this Risetober thing purely an art challenge? I... genuinely have no idea I’m just doing whichever medium of creation I please because I CAN)

Rise Calendar once again made by @3drottmnt

(Yeah I'm marking the days get over it)

“Hueso please!” Mikey begged as he followed the bone man through the tables. Hands clasped together in a pleading pose. Hueso merely took up no longer used menus, making his way to the podium of the entrance. Fixing them where they rightly go.

“I told you no,” Hueso says, firm but not harsh as he doesn’t look at Mikey. Who was pulling the biggest puppy dog eyes the youngest turtle could muster.

“But I’ve never used a brick oven before! And yours is so pretty!” Mikey said lightly gripping the bone man's arm. Hueso rolled his eyes, used to the turtle's antics, much similar to a certain blue cladded turtle.

“And that’s exactly why I’m not letting you use it,” Hueso retorts, remembering the time he and Leo almost destoryed his whole restaurant cooking for two rival gangs. Hueso tried not to physically cringe at the memory. Instead readjusting the silverware in the container under the podium. A fork, knife, and spoon all wrapped neatly in a black cloth. 

“So then teach me how to use it! Please Mr. Hueso!” 

Well that was new.

At the new level of manners Hueso whipped his head to look at Mikey in surprise. Getting caught in his puppy eyes gaze. Sad, pitiful, perfected to even get Splinter to do something if Mikey tried hard enough. Hueso sighed, realizing his defeat.

“If you break it you're buying me a new brick oven,” Hueso says as Mikey begins to cheer and dance, before lightly knocking into a table by accident. Hueso stands up and rubs his eyes “torpe.” he mutters before being dragged by Mikey into his kitchen.

“After hours! After hours!”

“Right, right okay!”

Hueso watches Mikey with surprise. The box turtle making a pizza almost as though he’d been a chief for years. The box turtle had insisted on doing the pizza making on his own. And Hueso initially thought the boy would make a mess. Watching nearby to clean up any accidents. But Mikey danced around the kitchen like he’d been there a thousand times before. It was impressive to say the least.

“Where’d you learn to cook like that niño?” He asks as Mikey finishes his toppings. Mikey looked at his creation with a satisfied smile. Looking toward Hueso with a grin.

“Eh, well, Raph did for a long time but,” Mikey gestured to the pizza “more complicated stuff I learned off Youtube.”

“Youtube?”

“I’ll show ya later, let’s get this bad boy in the oven!” Mikey exclaimed before giggling “The brick oven,” he said excitedly. Hueso can’t help smiling at the box turtle's childishness. Hueso helps him every step of the way. 

“Morra, I set a timer. You don’t have to watch it.” Hueso says with a small gesture to his bone themed kitchen timer. A gift from Leo to “make up” for almost destroying his restaurant. Mikey nods but doesn’t look at him. Staring into the brick oven with childlike fascination.

“I know but just… look,” Mikey almost whispers, eyes wide as he watches his pizza cook. Hueso can’t help the tiny, fond, smile that crosses him. Despite it all, he’d grown fond of the turtles coming to his restaurant. Even if they were sometimes troublemakers.

Slowly, the delicious smell of an almost finished pizza fills the kitchen. Hueso glanced at the timer to see how much longer. Moving to grab some plates and a pizza cutter.

The ring of the timer made Mikey jump. The peaceful silence interrupted. Mikey looked to Hueso for permission.

“Pizza’s done,” he says as if Hueso wasn’t there when the timer went off.

“I know, go on I know you want to pull it out yourself,” Hueso says, smiling at the excited grin that Mikey beams at him. Hueso kept a hawkeye on the box turtle as he slowly removed the pizza from the brick oven. The smell of the fresh cooked dough fully absorbing the room. 

Mikey watched the steam come off the pizza as it sat on the counter. Nervous, sure it was a pizza he made all the time. But now, what if he messed something up? Then Hueso would eat it, hate it, and ban him from the restaurant. Or what if the brick oven suddenly exploded while they were eating? Once again banning him from the restaurant. Mikey didn’t think that far ahead, or why a brick oven would explode randomly. But his thoughts were interrupted by a pizza slicer being gently waved in his face.

“You make the pizza, you cut it,” Hueso says with a shrug. Mikey grabbed the pizza cutter, gently cutting through the pizza as he had a million times before. Hueso gently took a piece as Mikey finished, putting the cutter in the sink. The cheesy gooey and stringing as Hueso put it on his plate. Mikey did the same, his stomach telling him how hungry he really was now that he pulled a slice from the pie. 

The two eat in silence for a moment.

“You make a very good pizza morra,” Hueso states as he takes another slice.

“Thank you! And thank you for letting me use your brick oven Mr. Hueso!” Mikey chirps, relieved as he enjoys the flavors of his creation.

[joontier]

Subliminal in Scrubs | V1; report vii

pairings: dr. jeon jungkook x female reader

chapter rating: NC-17 | genre: humor, romance

warnings: FINALLY~ we get to see a little bit of JK’s pov heh 

word count: 2.4k

g/n: Send me your thoughts?

[taglist] @nottodayjjk @ditttiii​ @zeharilisharaban​ @btsbunny07​ @turquoiseandplaidinautumn  @aamxxrii @codeinebelle ​

Subliminal in Scrubs (the records) |  navi. | m.list

“I hope you don’t mind us picking up a friend first then a drive thru afterwards... we did promise  someone a ride to the ceremony as well.” Chohee eyes Jungkook through the rear-view mirror. “Plus, we haven’t had any breakfast yet sooo…” Your new passenger uncharacteristically nods with unbridled enthusiasm. Huh.

“Totally not an issue at all. If you don’t mind, breakfast is on me,” he announces, sitting up a little straighter in his seat. You raise a freshly threaded eyebrow. There is no way this kid is actually offering to pay for your food. Jungkook clears his throat quietly, “Um...since you guys offered me a ride...you know…” 

Without even having to look at each other, you just know you and Chohee have similar smiles plastered on each of your faces. “Well,” Chohee makes a quick glance at the man seated at the back, “if you insist, Jungkook-ssi. How nice of you to do so.” 

You’re positive Jeon Jungkook will regret he even offered - in half an hour. Probably less. 

Just recently, Chohee has decided to relive an old hobby of hers: teasing you relentlessly with men clearly way out of your league until you actually end up investing much more time than intended (just as planned by Chohee) - until you come to the realization that there wasn’t going to be even the slightest chance of them even liking you back. End point is - you end up getting heartbroken for irrational reasons. 

Chohee, whose eyes sparkle with mirth with every mention of the Jimin, continues her teasing, despite your constant reminders to have her energy and time diverted to another subject, instead of poking her head through your currently non-existent love life. 

It’s an undisputed fact that Jimin is a cutie and quite the charmer, especially with his heroic deed of saving your sorry ass from getting your drinked spiked at the bar. However, there is a part of you that knows the slightest bit of infatuation you might feel or might have felt for Jimin was probably caused by the lack of interaction with men for the majority of your collegiate life. Of course, you always came back to your principles, that of which is prioritizing your career to shun love interests. 

Admittedly, you might have gotten distracted once, but you won’t ever let that happen again. 

In line with your best friend’s attempt to have you score a date and a boyfriend eventually, (her timeline, not yours!)Chohee had even gone so far as offering Jimin a ride to the oath taking ceremony that’s going to be held today at the Coex convention center at Gangnam. 

With Jimin’s apartment just a couple of blocks away from the gasoline station, you spot him right away when Chohee turns right into the corner. He’s stood by the entrance of his apartment building, looking effortlessly attractive as he scrolls through his phone while waiting. 

Chohee presses her fist lightly against the center of the wheel, the car emitting a soft honk to get Jimin’s attention. Jimin gives a curt wave in acknowledgment and reaches between his legs to grab his satchel. As soon as Jimin opens the car door, his head jolts slightly backward in surprise when he sees another passenger already inside. 

Chohee does the ice-breaker, introducing Jungkook to Jimin while she drives off. “Just before we got to your place, we had to fill the tank first and whaddya know? Met Jungkook at the gas station too! His bike broke down and I’ve offered him a ride - ergo, your new seatmate.” She adds a thumbs up. “Park Jimin, Jeon Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook, Park Jimin.” 

Contrary to Chohee’s cheerful voice mere seconds ago, awkward silence ensues after the two men bow to each other in greeting. The only subject of sanity the car was holding onto was the soft voice of Chohee’s navigation app coming from her phone on the dashboard. 

Why was it so hard to talk when you’ve all got at least a few things in common? 

Right, maybe it’s the fact that Jimin may or may not have known about your beef with Jeon Jungkook. Chohee’s doing, obviously. 

Thankfully, you spot a Burger King joint along the way and propose getting a greasy breakfast instead of looking for other options. There are murmurs of agreement heard in the suddenly cramped space of your best friend’s car. “Jungkook-ssi, breakfast still on you, yeah?” Chohee asks, joining the queue. 

“Uh…yeah-” 

“Perfect! Just making sure because _________ and I are famished!” Okay - that wasn’t exactly the word you were looking for, but if it gets you the free meal, then you’re absolutely ravenous. Chohee’s eyes briefly pass yours before sending a wink in Jungkook’s direction. “How ‘bout you Jimin-ssi? You hungry?” 

He looks at you, then Chohee, then at Jungkook. “I’m fine, I’m not hungry.” You see Jungkook trying painfully hard to not let his eyes dart around too much. Just then,  a low rumble erupts from Jimin’s stomach. Woops. Your brain can dictate your emotions but tummy would never lie outright. 

“Jimin-ssi!” Jungkook clasps a hand on the blond’s shoulder. “It’s fine! Breakfast is on me. Order up, bro!” 

With Jimin still looking hesitant, Jungkook decides to add a little fairy dust to his encouragement, “think of it as a mini celebration of us finally getting to be licensed doctors in a few hours!” Jimin gives in with very evident reluctance, even offering to pay for the whole group instead at one point. 

Your swear you see hesitation cross Jungkook’s eyes briefly, but you’re glad he’s a man of honor, even if it be for this particular instance only, firmly dismissing Jimin’s proposal. Which is perfect, honestly, because  this time you get a chance at revenge and a very hearty breakfast. 

“No crumbs on the floor, please!” 

From the backseat, you see Jungkook eyeing your paper bags on yours and Chohee’s laps, face stoic as ever. Emphasis on bags. A little more concentration and Jungkook can pretty much send lasers blasting through his eyes with the way he’s scrutinizing your orders. 

As shameless as it sounds, you and Chohee were never ones to back out of a free meal - and make the most out of it, especially when one had offered so nicely. So imagine Jungkook’s reaction when he and Jimin only got a Whopper meal and you and Chohee get upgraded full meals. 

“Doesn’t seem like we’re the ones who should be worrying about crumbs…” Jungkook mutters, taking a bite of his fry that’s a little too harsh for a slice of a poor fried potato. 

“You say something Jungkook?” Chohee queries, unabashedly letting out a small burp after taking a sip of her chocolate flavored milkshake. Bowing his head, Jimin tries to hide his smile as he takes a bite of his burger. You decide to step in, wanting to add a little more MSG to your breakfast menu this fine morning. 

“Hey Chee, heard of the news last Monday? There had been recent occurrences of drivers kicking out their passengers in the middle of the expressway, especially this road in particular… talk about some zombie apocalypse shenanigans...I wonder why though…” 

Jungkook clears his throat, addressing you this time. “Your strawberry milkshake...good, yeah?” With cheeks flushed, Jungkook dares not to look forward, murmuring his regrets over ordering more food next time. 

You nod with genuine gusto, throwing him an additional thumbs-up, which only causes Jungkook to sulk slightly in his seat. You eat the rest of your food with a bright smile. Ah, free food - what else is there to say? 

“If I do not violate this oath, may I enjoy life and art, respected while I live and remembered with affection thereafter. May I always act so as to preserve the finest traditions of my calling and may I long experience the joy of healing those who seek my help.” 

After reading the Hippocratic oath, the newly declared licensed medical doctors collectively put their hands down and take their seats. There is an immediate sense of fulfillment heavy in the air. Nobody can blame them - not when one has gruelled through six years of medical school. 

Jungkook inhales deeply, yet he still feels like he’s out of breath. 

He draws in another long one, savoring each second of exhale afterwards. From his peripheral vision, Jungkook watches you as you wave endlessly to the someone on the far right where the family and relatives are seated. Though he can’t see much from afar, with the way your hands are moving slower by the second, he figures you’ve already managed to catch the attention of whoever it is you were waving at. 

Jungkook diverts his eyes somewhere else, eventually landing on the stage where he sees his own father, standing behind the podium as he gives - what people beside him would consider - a ‘motivational’ speech in front of all the new doctors of Korea. 

He wonders if he could even see him, if he knew that his own son actually made it through college, if he realized that they were under the same roof at this very moment - an occurrence he never thought would happen again. 

Jungkook reverts his eyes back to you, watching you in secret as you talk to yourself while trying to address someone else. So you were waving to your parents after all. Cute. The man couldn’t fight back the small smile etching onto his face.  

He was happy for you - a genuine statement, even though majority, if not all, your encounters consist of you both bickering like small kids… And yet, he can’t deny the strong feeling of envy brewing at his heart, knowing that he could never have the same type of interaction you had with your parents, with how tight you all seem. 

Jungkook felt sick. Even though you ordered twice as much as he did, he felt like throwing up. He wanted this ceremony to be over with already.

Much to Jungkook’s relief, the program ends shortly after that. Excited to greet and congratulate the new batch of doctors, people from all sides of the venue rush to the entrance. With literally nowhere else to go, Jungkook decides to follow you through the crowd, in the hopes that you’ll lead him to Chohee and Jimin so he could properly thank them for the ride and he could be on his way. 

He’s surprised to not see you the least bothered by it, but then again, the convention center is packed with both the oath-takers and their relatives, so you might have really not known that he’s been following you all along. 

Like usual, it’s Chohee who notices him first. This girl is everywhere, all the time. 

“Jungkook, you’re here!” 

Chohee's acknowledgement of his presence causes you to turn in your heel quickly to verify it. You stare at him briefly, opening your mouth as if to say something when someone calls out your name.  “Mom!! Dad!!” 

Your English call causes a few onlookers and Jungkook recalls somebody once pointing out that you were a foreigner - and that you were also the first one to finish at the top of the class at SNU. 

With Chohee’s parents tailing yours, they rush to their own daughter, congratulating her with a hug and a cute bouquet of tulips. As Jimin appears with his own party not too long afterwards, Jungkook figures it’s his cue to leave. At this rate, none of you would have noticed if he actually left. 

Just as Jungkook was about to take off, a small hand grabs his wrist. You’re looking up at him and he swears he sees your lips curve upward a little before dragging him back to your little group. Stunned as ever, Jungkook wonders if he hinted on a little bit of concern in your features… and you smiled at him! For the first time! At least that’s what he thought he saw. 

Admittedly, all interactions between you and him were not the most friendly. Jungkook knew he acted like a dick a couple of times, but it’s the only way he knows that might allow you to lower your guard because the only thing he was certain of was that you get worked up every time you see him. 

Regardless of whether or not it really was a smile, Jungkook finds himself standing in the midst of this gathering of some sort. “Moms, Dads, this is Jeon Jungkook and Park Jimin.” 

The moms suddenly gush over them, while their fathers eye the two younger men warily. “Are you?… you’re not…” Chohee’s mother nudges her husband a little too obviously. “If they are, that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, would it?” she grits, a bright smile plastered on her face. Jungkook wanted to laugh at the uncanny resemblance with her daughter. 

“Oh what young fine men you are! Mrs. Park, you must be very proud of your son!” Your mother exclaims, resting her cheek on her palm. “But Jungkook-ssi, your parents must be lost then… my husband and I couldn’t figure out how this whole convention center works either…” 

Jungkook shakes his head slowly, lips pursed. “Oh. Um, my parents won’t make it today. They’re very busy people…” Jungkook drags his words, hoping they’ll drop the subject. 

Well, they did, but there was an inevitable pregnant pause after that - one which Jungkook was avoiding in the first place. Chohee’s mother clasps her hands together, breaking the awkward tension. “Uh - would you like to join us then? A little celebration for a memorable day?” 

Jungkook bows his head curtly and declines the offer. He wanted to, but he knows it’ll only do more damage to the wound. “It’s okay, Ma’am. I still have quite a lot of things to do today, like getting my motorcycle fixed.” Jungkook nods to Chohee and the girl briefly recalls how they got to the venue together. 

Jungkook doesn’t take long after that, bidding his goodbye to everyone and thanking Chohee for the ride that morning. “Well, I’ll be going now. __________-ssi, Chohee-ssi, Jimin-ssi, guess I’ll….see you when I see you.” 

“See you when we see you then,” you reply and Jungkook swears it’s an actual smile on your face this time. He returns the action and gets on his way, hoping that he really does get to see you all another time.

© joontier 2021

[wingsofanillyrian]

Lights Over Monaco: Chapter 3

Day late but here you go! Thank you to @acourtofcouture​ for beta-ing and putting up with me!

Chapter Masterlist

The six hour flight left Nesta well rested and refreshed as she checked into her hotel. She texted Jacob to check in and make sure none of his equipment had gotten lost on the flight. Having arrived a day earlier, he had been lurking around paddocks in hopes of capturing any drama on film.

He assured her everything had made it safely and informed her there were rumors flying about transmission troubles with the McLaren team. Nesta told him to keep an eye on it and unpacked her suitcase.

Nesta had just sat down when her phone rang. It was Tomas. Sighing, she decided she couldn’t avoid him forever.

“Tomas,” She answered coldly.

“About damn time you picked up the phone,” He replied, remorseless. He wasn’t earning himself any points. “What room are you in?”

She frowned. “How do you know if I’m even in Baku?”

“Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to find out flight numbers.” Interesting, he was keeping tabs on her.

“I don’t want to-”

“I said what room?”

Nesta sank back in the plush chair. Truthfully, she did want to see him, if only to determine what he had to say for himself. She couldn’t let go of the hope that somehow this was all a simple misunderstanding.

“Fourteen twelve,” She told him, instantly regretting it.

She heard him shuffling on the other end. “Five minutes.”

A knock on her door sounded a few minutes later, and she let Tomas in. “I saw the story.”

“Obviously,” Nesta scoffed, crossing her arms. Tomas reached for her but she stepped away. His eyes went bright with anger. She would not make this easy for him.

“I tried calling you.”

“I am aware.” Nesta picked at her nails to hide her trembling, trying to appear utterly nonplussed. “Did you sleep with her?”

“Yes.”

Nesta froze. Ever so slowly, her gaze slid to Tomas. Back straight, chin jutting out, staring down his nose at her. He still showed no sign of regret, nothing that would indicate he made a mistake.

“Why?” She rasped, fighting back tears. Tomas was not worth it.

He shrugged. “Because I wanted to. You and I are just fucking anyways. What does it matter?”

Nesta recoiled, blinking. “I can’t do this.” She had grossly miscalculated their entire relationship. Her palms began to sweat, her breathing increasing to a fever pitch. She pressed a hand to her chest, praying that the pressure would prevent her glass heart from shattering. Instead, it pushed the shards further into her lungs, making each breath ragged.

“Get out,” She whispered. Tomas scoffed, stepping forward.

“Nesta-”

“Out!” She repeated, more forcefully. She only needed to hold herself together for a few more seconds until he was out the door, then she could crumble.

Tomas’ face twisted. “Fine. I’ll see you at the paddock tomorrow anyway, I’m sure.”

Nesta let out a choked sob as soon as the door slammed shut. Her resolve broke, the dam inside of her punched through. Tears flowed freely down her face as she fell to her knees. She shouldn’t have loved him. 

Before they had met, she knew he was nothing but a heartbreaker. He went through women the way a drunk went through a bottle of liquor. Tomas viewed women in the same way as well; objects to be used until they were no more than empty shells and then discarded.

Nesta let the grief crash against her for a handful of minutes before she realized how useless it was. Tomas would never love her. Honestly, she wasn’t sure if he was capable of feeling such an emotion at all. There was no use letting him affect her.

Gathering her strength, Nesta stood. She looked at the sorry image in the mirror, taking in the red eyes, the mascara tracking down her cheeks, the disheveled hair. She wouldn’t let a man crush her. She had made it this far by blinding herself to the sneers and derogatory comments thrown at her. Why couldn’t she do the same to get over Tomas?

But as she climbed into bed, she realized how flawed that mentality was.

**********

Sunday’s race kept Nesta busy. Lucien and Azriel collided in lap three, causing a safety car and ultimately leading to the pair of them being unable to finish the race. Nesta had seen it on a television hanging in the Mercedes garage, the entire team letting out a collective shout when Vanserra didn’t yield to Azriel in the 90 degree turn and the Red Bull tangled with the Mercedes. Both cars were a mess of broken carbon fiber and snapped suspension bits.

Nesta managed to corner Azriel and get a few heated words out of him, a rare bit of annoyance showing through his usual calm. “Vanserra should have cut into the corner more sharply. He was way off the racing line.”

“Some people would say that you should have backed off and yielded the position to him,” Nesta added, hoping to get him worked up further. “What are your thoughts on that?”

Azriel glared at the camera, addressing anyone who dared think the incident had been his fault. “If you’re not allowed to defend, what’s racing about, then?”

Azriel turned on his heel and belined back to the garage. Jacob lowered the camera and turned to Nesta to ask, “You don’t actually believe it was Azriel’s fault, do you?”

“Of course not.” Nesta’s attention returned to the monitors and she grimaced. The racing incident had allowed Tomas to move up into first. Cassian was only a second behind, but struggling to overtake. At least she no longer had to be invested in Tomas holding his position. She couldn’t care less if he won or not.

In the end, it was Tomas taking home top points for Red Bull, Cassian bringing home 18 for Mercedes and Varian with a handful for McLaren spraying the champagne on the podium. Red Bull’s one stop strategy meant that when Cassian dipped into the pits on lap 38 for a fresh set of soft compound tires and one of the wheel nuts got stuck, Tomas was the clear winner. Cassian had no way to make up the 10 second deficit. The 25 points Tomas’ first place finish awarded him allowed him to slip past Cassian and snag the championship lead. 

And gods, was he smug about it.

Nesta told herself she didn’t care when Tomas sauntered into the press pen, his self-satisfied smile directed at her as he sat. Cassian and Varian filed in moments later, each silent as they took their seats. The room paused, Cassian’s hazel eyes flicking to where she sat front row. Everyone was waiting…. For her.

But her mind was blank. Not a single race related question surfaced. Nesta panicked, clenching a fist hard enough to feel her nails bite her palm. After a few beats of silence, the roar of the other reporters filled her head.

They had been waiting for her to ask something - anything - and she couldn’t come up with a single damned thing to say.

Jacob nudged her side. “You good?”

Nesta was too lost in the tangled web of thoughts to reply. This had all been a game to Tomas; his attitude now told her that. He had used her to gain favor with other teams and build a solid reputation with fans. After all, what better way to gain positive media attention than to have the sport’s most infamous writer in your bed?

She managed to keep her face carefully blank until the end of the conference. She didn’t say a word to Jacob as he packed up, shooting her confused glances all the while. The walls of the room pushed in on her, chest becoming tight. Standing on shaky legs, she fled down the hall, finding an abandoned alcove far from the cacophony of noise.

Chest heaving, Nesta tried to sort through her revelation. Tomas had used her. He had never intended to let this drag out. Those pictures had likely been a calculated move on his end, intended to spear her heart. Maybe breaking her had been his plan all along. He seemed to enjoy her emptiness, judging by the way he kept glancing at her during the conference. 

Her phone vibrated. Against her better judgement, she checked it. It was only Jacob, asking where she was. She only texted back to say that she was fine before gathering herself. She couldn’t just crumble in a hallway where anyone could see her.

She had just began to head towards the exit when someone jogged behind her. “Hey!”

“Not now Cassian,” Nesta said, annoyance evident. How did he always manage to find her when she wanted to be left alone? It was like he had some kind of sixth sense, focused directly on her.

“Hold on,” He said, fingers brushing her arm. The touch froze her, muscles coiling. It had only been a brief moment, but the surprise of it was enough to disarm her. “You okay? You didn’t say a word at the conference.”

Her lips peeled back in a snarl. “Why do you care?”

He did not flinch. Most would have. “Because I’m a decent person, believe it or not.” She searched his face for any sign of insincerity. She couldn’t find any; his hazel eyes held only honeyed truths.  

Nesta’s laugh was cruel, hot tears threatening to fall. “Right. Sure you are. Suddenly you feel like caring about how I feel instead of fucking with me. How about you leave me to my misery, Cassian? No need to rub it in.”

She didn’t wait for a response. Didn’t want to see the look on his face, whether it was anger or smug satisfaction, or something else entirely. 

Nesta managed to make it out and call a taxi to take her back to the hotel. She was silent the entire ride, not bothering with half-hearted small talk. Collapsing on the bed, she didn’t bother changing. She queued up a cheesy comedy film, one that was full of stupid jokes that were funny when it first came out, but not relevant in the present day.

Halfway through, Nesta grew bored and checked her phone. There was a text from an unknown number.

You okay? You never answered me.

"What the fuck," Nesta mumbled, rereading the message. How had Cassian gotten her number? 

Fine, was all she said back. She didn't know why she even bothered responding. Maybe it was because he had seemed genuinely concerned in that hallway and she felt slightly guilty for blowing him off.

I can buy you a drink if you come down to the hotel bar

Fuck off and leave me alone

Gladly.

Nesta let out a frustrated sigh and texted Jacob.

You gave him my number didn't you?

Jacob's response was only an emoji of a nervous smile.

"Little fucker," She mumbled, tossing her phone aside. She'd throttle him tomorrow on the plane. Right now, she was too hungry to send a snarky reply. If she slipped out the back, she could grab a burger without having to chance running into Cassian at the bar.

Grabbing a sweater - the desert got cold at night, she'd learned that the hard way - she made the trek down the fourteen flights of stairs, trying to piece together her life.

By the time she made it to a fast food shop, she was exhausted. She inhaled her meal in minutes, lounging in the dingy booth. She looked at her phone for what felt like the thousandth time, disappointed when there wasn’t so much as a text from Tomas.

She got up from the booth, tossed her trash in the bin and walked out. She took the long way back to the hotel, purposely winding through the streets. Why did she care if Tomas hadn’t texted her? It was her own fault that she had let herself fall for him in the first place. She knew it had been a horrible idea, and yet she had allowed herself to let him gain a place of importance in her life. They’d agreed on no feelings, and yet here she was. 

By the time she made it back to her hotel room, Nesta was exhausted. It took her three tries to fit the electronic key in the reader, and she used her full weight to shoulder the obscenely heavy door open. 

She didn’t bother with the lights, simply slipping out of her shoes and throwing her jacket in the general direction of the closet. She wanted to sleep; maybe that would reset her mind so she could feel less broken tomorrow.

“Hey-”

“Fuck!” Nesta jumped at the voice, fumbling for the lightswitch, heart in her throat. She squinted when warm light filled the room, shoulders relaxing when she saw who it was. Tomas, standing awkwardly by the desk, roses and a small box in his hands. Despite herself, hope bloomed.

“What are you doing here?” She asked, unmoving.

Setting down the bouquet, Tomas stepped forward to hand her the box. “I came to apologize. I know I missed your birthday and that I’m a shitty person. But if you open that, I think you’ll see…”

He trailed off, nodding to the present she now held. She opened the hinged black velvet, revealing a small diamond necklace. It was delicate, nothing flashy, but enough to make a statement. Nesta glanced up at him, heart warring with her head.

“Do you think showering me with pretty things will make me take you back, after what you said?”

“I think it’ll help, when paired with the fact that I-” He swallowed, trying and failing to hide his grimace. “I love you.”

Any and all sane thoughts left her head upon hearing those three precious words. Gods, she had dreamed of this moment for months. He’d only waited to tell her because it was clearly hard for him to say. But now that he’d admitted it, she could teach him how to love.

Nesta laughed, throwing her arms around his neck. “I love you too, Tomas. I always have.”

His hands rest on her back, not returning her fervor but she didn’t care. “Now will you take me back?”

The short answer was yes, absolutely. There was nothing she wanted more in the world than to wrap herself up in him and get lost. But her head knew that she needed to lay out a defense.

“Only if you promise we can make this real. If we can be together. Which means no more stunts for the cameras. I can’t keep writing about it like it’s nothing.”

Tomas tensed against her. “Fine. I can do that.”

The weight on Nesta’s chest eased. She let him lay her back on the bed, ripping at his clothes. She only let him pull away long enough for him to whisper, “I can’t stay the night.”

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